


O-T-P: 5EVAH

by QuizzicalQuinnia



Series: O-T-P: A Saga of Epic True Love and Stuff [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ALL TEH META, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week, Still Don't Know What or Why This Is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4928875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/pseuds/QuizzicalQuinnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bestest fangirls ever, Myrcella, Sansa, and Margaery, are back! They remain ded by feels, but when things appear to be cooling between hot Uncle Jaime and the majestic unicorn Brienne Tarth, there is no choice but to take action to bring their otp's burning lust back to the surface. On top of THAT even, there's a hater at large, bent on besmirching the reputation of pure cinnamon roll Brienne. Can the fangirls achieve full-on Parent Trap-ness AND unmask the hater before...things happen? Or not? Something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which There is a Hater, an Injury, and a Wise Young Lad

**Author's Note:**

> This happened. I had no intention of it happening, but it wanted to happen, so it happened. I apologize deeply for the terrible slang. 
> 
> You do not need to read the first part of O-T-P to understand this one (I hope), and in summary, Brienne Tarth is a writer who created a top-notch fictional OTP beloved by Myrcella, Sansa, and Margaery. They are fangirls extraordinaire, and they realize that Myrcy's hot Uncle Jaime is the perfect match for their magical favorite, Brienne. After hi-jinx and hilarity, their plot to create a real-life OTP is a great success, and hot Uncle Jaime whisks Brienne away at a party to rip staples out of her dress and snog and stuff. So here we proceed with the next stage of their salacious saga...

 

“You don’t even understand! It’s the worst thing that could ever happen maybe.”

“What?!? She dumped him?!? He dumped _her_?!?”

“No way, there’s just no way. He’s totes crazy about her. Obvs.”

“I’m telling you, it’s weird. And he found the camera in the living room so I _don’t even know anymore_!” Myrcella Lannister-Baratheon-Lannister plopped backwards onto Margaery Tyrell’s Meereenese down duvet and covered her eyes with her forearm. Life was just _so_ heinous lately.

Sansa Stark joined her in the cloud of high thread-count. “Just tell me who dumped who or I can’t even.”

“Whom. I think,” Margaery commented. “We could have asked your uncle, but he’s dead.”

“Uncle Jamie is _dead!_? _That’s_ what happened?!?!” Sansa immediately started to bawl, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and ruining her mascara. “Like, _dead_ dead, or _ded_ dead? Did he read chapter six from book two, or chapter fourteen from book one?”

Myrcy bolted upright, thrashing her arms at her friends. “No! Uncle Jaime is _not_ dead and I have no idea what he’s read, for the sake of the seven! It’s our OTP that’s dying. You don’t even understand.”

“Why?!?!” Sansa wailed.

“Everyone calm down, fuck.” Margaery sighed.

“Language, Marg,” Sansa chided between sniffs.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, we’re going to uni in four months. How are you supposed to get through exams if you can’t curse about it?”

Sansa looked downcast. “Well, I was going to start hibiscus tea.”

“Fuck the tea, we have bigger things to worry about right now.” Myrcy chewed on a hangnail and winced at her own word choice. She popped out with all kinds of stupid when she had to think about _uni_. She couldn’t even.

“Ew, it doesn’t sound right coming from you.” Margaery’s smirk twisted into a grimace.

Myrcy lay back down and buried uni in a lead coffin and threw it into the sea. “No, it doesn’t. You can have the swears. But still…we’re in trouble. It’s bad.”

Margaery pulled a bottle of cake-flavored vodka from under her pillow and unscrewed the cap. “Fortification. Tell us everything, and this time, don’t make Sansa think anybody is dead.”

“That was you.”

“I can’t take much more of this!” Sansa shrieked.

“That’s because you need to get laid.” Margaery shrugged.

Sansa opened and closed her mouth like a fish.

“Virgins…” Marg muttered under her breath.

Myrcy sighed a sigh of despair. “Whatever. It’s been slow, like I _just_ started noticing. Everything was fine for so long, even after Uncle Jaime found the camera I hid in the plant and took it, and then they stopped going to their favorite spots so I couldn’t send out blasts for photos from our street team, and now they barely even hold hands anymore! It’s terrible!” Her lip began to tremble. “What if…what if they break up and the world is a lie and we’ll all die alone because love is the death of the soul?”

Margaery furrowed her brow. “Wait, you’re serious? No more PDA? No more fingers grazing along skin above old-people collars? No more playing footsie under the table with squeaky shoes? No more of that thing where they’re about to kiss and they just breath each other’s air? What?!?”

“No! I know it’s like, been over a year and whatever, and I guess that honeymoon period stuff is real, but still. They used to kiss and touch each other all the time, even in front of me, but not anymore. It’s just _done_.” Myrcy let one single, perfect tear release from the corner of her eye.

“Well, what _do_ they do?” Sansa kept her own trail of saltwater flowing freely.

Myrcy sighed until she coughed. “They look at each other. Stare sometimes. A little graze of the fingers when they reach for food. But _nothing_ super sexy or meaningful. Something is _happening_.”

Margaery took a swig of liquor. “Maybe it’s stress. The final book is coming out in six months, and she still has to finish it, right? Maybe she’s preoccupied?”

Myrcy and Sansa adopted identical brow raises.

Marg shrugged. “Right, right. She’d never be too preoccupied for Uncle Jaime’s smoking hot body of lust.”

“Gross.” Myrcy cringed. “And that’s another thing! We’ve got to do all the things for the last book when it’s released, so we don’t have much time to sort this out!” The lead coffin of uni bobbed back to the surface. She couldn’t ignore it. “We’ll be in _uni_ , oh my gods oh my gods.”

“Six months is a _lot_ of time, and uni is going to be like, _way_ more fun than school. And anyway, we’ve got to get to the bottom of this before we make a plan. Myrcy, you’re barely even home. Maybe you’re just missing the good stuff.” Marg shivered a little from another sip of vodka.

Uni was _not_ going to be more fun than _anything_. Uni turned people into terrible creatures, like _adults_. “I guess. The two of you will have to conduct a covert investigation. Uncle Jaime _expects_ me to spy all the time.” Myrcy propped her elbows on her knees and her chin on her palms.

“You do spy all the time. But we’ll get right on it, won’t we, Sansa?” Marg grinned at her ginger friend. For a long moment. “I said _won’t we, Sansa?!_ ”

“Huh? Oh, yes right. Of course.” Sansa wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and flashed a feeble smile.

“Ugh. She’s thinking about Willas again. The sex life of Uncle Jaime and Brienne the Magnificent has to be a priority right now. Gods,” Myrcy insisted.

“I am not, I do not, it’s not happening, Willas is never happening!” Sansa’s tears fell faster.

Myrcy sighed loudly. She and Marg had worked _so_ hard to get Sansa and Willas together, but they were both just _so_ lame!

Marg smirked. “Willas is totally happening. You’re just both idiots. You bury yourself in Fumblr and he’s taken up wood burning. It’s disgusting. He smells like charred cat all the time.”

“He smells like the forest at dawn.” Sansa peered at her lap and twisting fingers.

“Like you’ve ever been in a forest at dawn, and also, fixated much?” Marg continued to smirk. “You’re just going to have to grow a pair because my dearest brother has forgotten he has balls.”

“Shut up, just shut up! It’s not like you haven’t been all wrapped up in your blue-collar boytoy! He smells like the bottom of a boat by the way!” Sansa wailed.

“Gendry does _not_ smell like a boat. He smells like…shop class. He loves shop class, and also, he needs education, Sansa. Who better than I to teach him how to snog and learn the curves of the female form?” Marg swigged and smirked a full smirk and not even a half-smirk.

“Stop it, both of you,” Myrcy commanded. “Sansa, you really _do_ have to figure out your thing with Willas, and Marg, we all know how stupid it is for you to date Gendry. You have nothing in common and you haven’t even _done_ anything with him. He’s boring, and a _junior!_ ”

“True,” Marg admitted. “It’s just that Grandmother won’t let me be seen with a college boy after the spring incident, and I’ve run through everyone in the senior class who’s worth a second look. It’s Gendry or nothing until summer!”

“That Daario guy was _not_ cool, Marg,” Myrcy reminded with a very serious bobble-head nod.

Marg huffed. “Just because he smoked a lot of things and might maybe have been a smuggler or some guy who disappeared up north doesn’t mean he wasn’t _cool_ , guys. Gods. Only Grandmother thought it was a big deal that he brought that blonde chick to the hotel with us.”

“He wasn’t cool, and heavens forbid you don’t get round the clock adoration for a whole _three months_ ,” Sansa muttered. “And anyway, I’ve been super busy with the Aegis of Adorable. It’s a _lot_ of work to post twice an hour, guys.” Sansa sniffed a generous amount of snot and frowned at her friends.

“I _really_ wish we hadn’t named it that. It sounds pretentious now,” Myrcy grumbled.

“So what if it does! We are the protectors, guys! We are the stalwart shields that stand between our precious cinnamon roll and the gnarly teeth of hater-kind. Obvs.” Sansa shrugged and sniffed.

“Ugh, she’s been at it _again_ today!” Myrcy punched a pillow for emphasis. She couldn’t even admit out loud that the hater had been sort of a nice distraction. From _uni_.

‘We don’t know it’s a _she_. We’re assuming, and as we are _not_ asses, just…yeah,” Marg chided.  

Sansa tried to clear her nose again. “Well, the Aegis of Adorable has ten times as many followers as YDBJ, and since we’ve vowed to kill it ded, we have to follow through.”

“That just means we have to figure out what’s happening with Uncle Jaime and Brienne _now_ or we won’t have anything more to post!” Myrcy nearly shouted. “We need new pics, guys, or we’ll lose followers. They want the cuteness.”

“Ugh, I hate that troll. I mean, _YDBJ_? Really? I still think it’s some guy who just wishes Brienne were a starchild of gender issues rather than a tall straight woman in love with a hot uncle with abs of the Warrior and a perfect round arse.” Marg punched the pillow Myrcy had abandoned.

“You know very well it’s _You Deserve Better Jaime_ , not _Yesterday’s Blow Job_ , Marg. It doesn’t mean anything except disgusting hater trollishness.”

“I can acronymize what I want.” Marg held out the vodka bottle as if toasting.

“I don’t think that’s a word,” Sansa offered gently.

“Grammar is my bitch.”

“Guys, we’ve got to make a plan!” Myrcy reminded insistently. “We’re getting too distracted from our goal.”

“Gods, Myrcy, you’re so stressed out lately. Chill.” Marg swigged.

Maybe she should have told them she wasn’t exactly excited about uni. But they were _so_ excited, and she wasn’t because of _change_ and they loved it, so did not telling mean she was _changing_ while trying not to have everything _change_? Gah.

“Whatever. I’m just terrified that Uncle Jaime will find out about the hater. You know how upset he got that one time the Tribune threw shade when he took Brienne to the Opera gala. And that was just a swipe at her dress! He’d flip out at the hater, or at least he _would_ have. Once. Upon a dream.” Myrcy sniffed like Sansa.

“Calm your tits, and we’ll figure it all out.”

Myrcy glanced at her chest and grimaced, quickly running her fingers through her hair to cover her slip.

Marg went on, “Maybe I can get Renly to interview Brienne as part of the book press tour, and he can maybe observe her or them without us around. Renly needs more interviews for his portfolio before graduation, and if I promise not to keep sneaking into Loras’ class while he’s TA and messing him up, Renly would probably agree.”

“That sounds workable.” Sansa nodded.

“It’s a start at least. Good.” Myrcy nodded.

“Then it’s settled. Investigate the lovebirds, kill the troll ded, get Sansa laid.” Marg nodded and swigged.

* * *

 

Jaime slid his hand under his good blue dress shirt. It looked much better on Brienne, and he relished the sensation of his fingers on the smooth skin of her back. He’d watch how her muscles tensed from his touch, but his vision was obscured since their mouths were fused together, her body gingerly hovering over his on the sofa.

It was one of those moments when she forgot to feel self-conscious and let herself be seduced. He loved that, and had gotten much better at knocking down her walls of hesitancy. It took him three minutes, maybe two on a good day, and she’d give in until their tongues were tangled and her fingers twisted in his hair.

And they were _alone_. Really alone. Tommen was at 4-H with Ser Pounce, Myrcy was with her terrifying friends, and he’d found their sad attempt at hiding a spy camera. _No one was watching_.

The idea sent a thrill through his already-restless body, and he wrapped his arms around Brienne until she had to collapse on him. It made his back spasm, but he refused to wince, too caught up in her scent and her lips. Her chest heaved against his, and she slid one leg up until her thigh grazed his hip. He let out an inadvertent yelp.

She broke their kiss immediately and glared down, quickly removing herself from the sofa completely until she towered over him. “Jaime!”

He couldn’t help but grin. “What?”

“You really have no sense of self-preservation. _I_ know better…I _should_ know better, and you just…”

“What?” he prodded, licking his lips

She threw her hands up in exasperation. “You know _what_. You’re supposed to rest.”

“I _am_ resting. Clearly.” He gestured to his reclining position on the sofa, then stretched out his hand to grasp hers.

“You’re not resting, you’re being _you,_ and you’re going to injure yourself even worse,” she insisted.

He pouted. “I can’t help it. You’re wearing my shirt.”

“You’re ridiculous, and I’ll just take it off then.”

“Okay.” He knew his eyes glinted as he scanned her body slowly.

“Jaime! Really.”

“Yes, I do like hearing you shout that.” He bit his bottom lip as he noticed that the top buttons of his/her shirt had popped open, revealing a wedge of freckled porcelain and a sliver of shadow between her breasts. She didn’t think she had much to look at. He disagreed.

She scowled.

He sighed, playing with her fingers still trapped in his. “I can’t help it. We’re hardly ever alone, and you’ve got that flush on your cheeks, and it’s not my fault that I’m addicted to you. It’s been _two days_.”

Her flush deepened. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it really so bad that I want you?” he stared up at her with puppy eyes.

She swallowed, and he watched the column of her neck. “It’s not bad, but it _is_ how you threw your back out in the first place.”

“Technically, _you_ threw my back out,” he reminded, imagining her peeling the halves of his shirt apart until it fluttered to the floor.

She crossed her arms over her chest as if she knew what he was thinking. “ _You_ wanted to try that thing!”

“That thing was great.”

Her blush began to stain her cheeks as she glanced over the sofa, huffing. He could tell it was half-hearted.

He didn’t take his eyes off her. “I’m going to work on my core strength so I don’t get injured again. That thing really merits more practice.”

She adopted a ferocious grimace, but the expression is her eyes was the opposite. “Take another painkiller so you’ll sleep though this nonsense, and I’m leaving to get Tommen. You’re…” she shook her head, more to herself that at him, “you’re…”

“Sexy? Horny? Too charming to resist?” He grinned. “All of the above?”

She let her gaze slide up and down the length of his body, shook her head again, and grabbed her keys. “Yes.”

She was out of sight before he’d finished chuckling. “Button your/my shirt!” he yelled as he heard the front door open.

He didn’t want anybody else staring at her delicious flesh. He sighed, already missing her and lamenting the necessary curtailing of adult activity. Once she returned with Tommen, they’d be obliged to endure a dinner hour filled with cat facts and Ser Pounce’s intense dislike of Prince Quentyn of Sunspear, the beast’s archrival in Tommen’s upcoming cat show.

He’d only been forced into inactivity for two days, but that meant two nights of Brienne refusing to pretend to leave the house after dinner and reentering through his office window like a burglar. Instead, she’d _actually_ left and made him promise not to move until she returned in the morning. It was ridiculous. Come to think of it, everything was ridiculous.

At the start, he’d been reluctant to openly advertise that he and Brienne were intimate, in front of the children. He had no idea what was appropriate for them to see, and the last thing he wanted was to make Myrcy and Tommen feel that he was mimicking their thoughtless mother by placing his sex life above their emotional state. Tyrion had quickly convinced him that seeing affection between two stable adults could benefit his wards, so he’d loosened up. He should have known it would backfire spectacularly not six months later. He _should_ be able to have his girlfriend stay over without his teenage niece blogging about it in what she thought was sly, veiled language, as he’d discovered was her habit.

He didn’t even want to check if she’d kept her promise after a very heated conversation. Myrcy wasn’t supposed to post any more about their personal lives, and especially no commentary about their relationship. It was just too intrusive.

She’d gotten around it by hiding a camera in the living room fern to film them, because filming, of course, wasn’t blogging. He’d found that, too, and hadn’t said a word. He’d just confiscated it and had far a more pleasant conversation with Brienne wherein they both agreed to once again tone down their more personal displays in front of Myrcy. Brienne had laughed about it, but Jaime just didn’t trust Myrcy’s more obsessive tendencies, and he frankly had no idea how to handle the situation as her guardian, baffled as he was by the mystery of teenage girls.

Myrcy _had_ been a little too quiet about Brienne lately though. Maybe her interest was waning now that she knew Brienne quite well, as an actual person rather than some mysterious author hidden away somewhere. Still…teenagers were like toddlers. Too quiet and _trouble_.

Jaime pulled out his phone and found his old bookmark of Myrcy’s fan blog. Lots of recent posts about Brienne’s books and other fan-related things, but blessedly no images of himself or Brienne to be seen. He sighed in relief. And then he noticed the little tags at the bottom of the posts. One was # _BrienneTarth._

He shouldn’t tap on it. He’d probably be bombarded by photos and news about Brienne, which would make him miss her more, which would make him _want_ her more, and his damned back wasn’t having any of that.

He tapped on her name and slowly scrolled through photos of Brienne at book signings and posts dissecting her books and lauding her talent. He grinned to himself, but that grin quickly turned into a scowl as he found a photo of himself with his arm wrapped around Brienne at a restaurant from only a few weeks before. He looked at the name of the poster…The Aegis of Adorable. His teeth were grinding together by the time he’d seen five or six more posts, all photos and all in places no one would expect to find Brienne without insider information. It had to be Myrcy and her friends. There was no question in his mind.

He choked on air when he saw that this insidious blog had hundreds of followers. That many people wanted to spy on his private relationship? He didn’t think he’d ever understand the internet.

He really should toss his phone under the sofa and out of reach, but it was like a train wreck. Each post led to something else that made him alternately enraged and fascinated. It was addictive, seeing a documentation of his own life with Brienne, dissected and commented upon and held up as some pinnacle of human achievement. That part was true, at least.

And then he found a long discussion between the Aegis (the _girls,_ and would they ever be in trouble!) and other commenters, something about a supreme hater and how the hater was a troll who had to die and was worse than crack dealers living in pond scum. The girls might be compulsive and potentially insane, but Jaime knew there was only one thing that would make them so angry…something criticizing Brienne. It wouldn’t even be about him, it had to be Brienne.

Which meant he was setting himself up for some rage of his own if he looked further. He knew he was going to, there was no point in pretending he wouldn’t. It took him awhile to figure out how, but he finally found the root of the girls’ disdain, a blog called _You Deserve Better Jaime_.

_Don’t do it, don’t look…_ he told himself.

The most recent post was some manipulation of photos. An old image of him at the side of a pool had been pasted on the body of a horse, like a centaur, and next to him was the horse’s head pasted on Brienne’s body from an image of a gala he’d taken her to. There was a caption. _“Accurate.”_

Jaime’s fingers tightened around his phone under his skin turned bright red and the tendons stood out. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so angry. No, he could. It was when that gang had tried to mug Tyrion, and he’d fended them off at the cost of his right hand.

So this was why Myrcy had gone back on her promise, to counteract whoever this person was who seemed to take joy in attacking Brienne. He could hardly blame his niece, even though he’d have to deal with it at some point. No matter though, Brienne could never know about this. It would cut her deeply, bring out all her many insecurities and make her wonder if this psycho were right.

He stared at the heinous image for a few more seconds, letting it burn into his memory, and then he called his lawyer. Fumblr would be the first to pay for this.

* * *

 

Willas Tyrell bent over the desk in the library, his elbows crinkling the thick layer of newspaper protecting the surface. The smell of singed hair wafted about even though all the windows were open. This time, he would get it right. He glanced at the bin full of discarded wood blocks and grimaced. _Tenth time’s a charm._

The wood burning pen glided along the newest block held firmly in his left palm, the searing tip forming delicate scales like a pinecone, only they would become the outline of a wolf. It had to be perfect, this time.

The door burst open, and Willas’ hand slipped. The wolf now had a long, singed scar across its unformed face.

“Dammit, Loras!” he shouted, slamming the pen down and burning his thumb in the process. He sucked on it and pouted.

His older brother smirked and ran one set of fingers through his hair, his _luxuriant mane_ according to Renly. Ugh.

Loras caught sight of the desk’s contents. “Still at it? Really, you need more to do, Wills.”

“University is disappointing.” Willas dipped his thumb into his glass of sparkling water.

“Well, we all told you to go to Oldtown. Are you ever going to explain why you stayed here in the city with all us common intellect types?” Loras grinned, and called out the door before Willas could reply. “Ren? Come on, we’ve got too much work to do to putter about with the flower arrangements!”

“Putter about? You’ve adopted some interesting jargon lately.” Willas surreptitiously covered the stray wolf heads around him.

“I’m a _senior_ , Wills. It’s prestigious.”

“It’s something.”

Loras leaned over the desk and examined Willas’ face. “Freshies don’t judge. And you need a girl unless you’ve decided to switch teams. I know a great blond fellow—“

“No!” Willas yelled. “I mean, no, I remain as straight as you are bendy.”

“Bendy? That’s great. Ren, guess what? We’re _bendy_ now. At least I know _you_ are!” Loras grinned wider than before.

Renly sauntered in, more sedate than Loras but just as arrogant. “I like that. I’ll take it.”

Willas sighed. The library was one of the only places in the vast Tyrell estate where he could find peace, and now even that was being taken. “Why aren’t you both at your flat? Or somewhere on campus?”

“Ugh,” Loras sneered. “The building’s full of losers and too noisy. And campus…you never spend time there, so you just don’t know how terrible it is.”

“Really, really terrible,” Renly added.

“We need somewhere quiet so we can put out project together. It’s extremely complicated.” Loras nodded sagely at Renly.

“Do I even want to ask?” Willas knew if he _didn’t_ ask outright, Loras would just pester.

“Of course you do. We’re in charge of festivities for the graduating class, and instead of the usual lame dance or auction or something, we’re going a _totally_ different direction. It’s going to be amazing!”

“Wait for it…” Renly held his palms up. “An acapella flash mob for charity.”

Loras and Renly peered at Willas with identical manic grins.

“What?”

“An acapella flash mob for charity,” Loras repeated.

“I heard, but I don’t understand.”

Loras sighed mightily. “All the cool people are in acapella, and this is our last year. We’ve got to go out with a bang—”

“Guaranteed for us.” Renly winked.

“Obviously. But for everyone else, they need our _help_ , Willas.” Loras adopted a most earnest expression. “And it’s for charity.”

“Which one?” Willas requested with a raised brow.

Loras sat back. “We don’t know yet. It has to be important and trendy, but not depressing. We can’t be distracted by depressing things.”

Willas glanced at his bin of discards. “What about saving the northern wolves?”

Loras glanced at Renly. “Ooh, animals. That’s always good. Just dire enough without full on extinction depression. What do you think, Ren?”

“I like it. Good one, Willas. Now if we could only find our song.” Renly frowned.

Willas considered the situation, but he was bored and thought digging a hole for himself wasn’t the worst idea. “Aren’t flash mobs sort of…done by now?”

Loras smirked. “That’s the beauty! It’s a trend that’s just old enough to be brought back without being pathetic.”

“I really don’t think that’s the case.”

Loras scowled. “Like you’d know. You’re holed away burning wood and you hate uni.”

Willas shrugged. “That’s true.”

“Anyway—”

A clatter sounded from the hall followed by cursing and an airy giggle. Willas didn’t hear clomping, so it was just Margaery and Sansa without Myrcella for once. He couldn’t stop himself. “We’re in here, Margaery!”

“Ugh, Willas, why? She’s just going to comment on everything as if she knows.” Loras plopped into an overstuffed chair, and Renly moved to perch on the arm.

“Hey ho, brothers. And Renly.” Margaery whisked in with Sansa delicately trailing behind. “I have a request.”

“You always have a request,” Loras grumbled.

“This is for a good cause, I promise.” Margaery occupied the other chair and stared intently at Renly.

Sansa stopped in front of the desk. “Hi Willas.”

“Hello, Sansa.” Willas cleared his throat and made sure no wolves were showing anywhere.

“So, Renly dear, we need you to interview Brienne Tarth. It will add to your portfolio, and in return, I swear not to disturb Loras in class for the remainder of the semester.” Margaery presented her bargain with primly folded hands and a knowing smile.

Loras lurched forward in his chair. “Really? You promise? Renly, you have to. I can’t take anymore of her disruption. Last week, she kept trying to derail my intense discussion of the historical Dothraki mare’s milk brewing tradition by constantly commenting about cow teats.”

Renly patted Loras on the shoulder. “There, there. I’ll do it just for you, but Marg, what’s your ulterior motive or your ulterior motive’s ulterior motive, because we know you have both.”

Margaery shrugged. “For once, I’m not going to hide my truth. You know how much we love Brienne Tarth, and that Myrcy’s hot Uncle Jaime is in love with her. It’s perfect and beautiful and all the things. But something’s up, and we need to fix it. We just want you to interview and ask some pointed questions, and make some observations, so we can find out.”

“You mean you’ve exhausted your own pathetic spying skills and have to bring in someone else to avoid suspicion,” Loras accused.

“Yes.”

Loras turned to Renly. “It’s worth it. I need this.”

“I already said yes. I’ll call Jaime and ask. It’s the most direct route since he knows me. I’ll just frame it as asking for a favor.” Renly smiled his kind smile.

Margaery glanced at Sansa. “That’s better than our plan.”

“What was your plan?”

“Never mind,” the two girls said as one.

“So, what are you up to, Willas?” Margaery shifted her sly gaze to him.

“Uh…um, hobbies. Stuff. Reading poetry.” Willas knew there were no open books around, but he was stumped.

Sansa inhaled sharply. “I love poetry!”

Renly stood up. “Hey, Willas you _are_ good with words. Maybe you can help us with our song.”

Loras bolted to his full height and mock-whispered. “Ren, _no_! The girls!”

Margaery leapt to stand on her chair. “Too late! What’s going on! Tell me now!”

Loras threw his hands up and began to pace.

“Sorry, Loras, but you know Wills would be better at this.” Renly moved his glance from Loras to Willas. “Look, we want to use an original song for our acapella flash mob, but we’re stumped, and practice starts in _five_ days. You solved the charity crisis. Maybe you can help with this, too?”

“To write a song? I’ve never done that.”

“Ooh, you know who _has_ done that, like thousands of time?!? Sansa! Sansa has done that!” Margaery jumped down from the chair and grabbed Sansa’s arm. “Haven’t you? Right? She’s so good with words, you guys.”

Renly nodded. “Frankly, we’re swamped, right Loras?”

Loras forced his grimace into not-quite-a-smile. “I suppose. I mean, it would help, but Marg, you’re not exactly trustworthy.”

“I know, and despite this acapella flash mob being the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard in my life, I’m totally on board, and I won’t mess anything up, and Sansa is totes _amazing_. I swear.” Marg shook Sansa like a rag doll.

“I don’t know…” Sansa tried to comment, but the words came out like stutters.

Willas was caught. He had no desire to write a song for his brothers’ idiotic endeavor, but burning wood wasn’t working out so well. Uni was _so_ dull…

“I…I’ll do it, but I could use help. Sansa?”

Sansa glanced at him, the shaking having ceased. She nodded with her mouth open.

Renly and Loras began discussing their songwriting needs, and Margaery leaned close to Sansa’s ear. Willas could still hear.

“You can write it about Jaime and Brienne, and it could be a tribute song we could make a new video with, and it could be perfect!”

Sansa’s face lit up and the sun caught her flame-red hair like an autumn afternoon on a wooded path. She nodded.

* * *

 

Brienne’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, her eyes totally focused on the road and her ears on Tommen’s chatter from the seat next to her. Cats, cats, always cats.

Jaime’s shirt smelled like spice and resin, and just Jaime. It was incredibly distracting. She never should have put it on. It was making her hot, and not just because a lazy spring sun was shining through the car window. She began to smell her own heated skin, and it mixed with the shirt and made the air smell like _them_ together. She cleared her throat.

“Brienne?” Tommen asked in his sweet little boy voice, though he was nine and a half now.

She cleared her throat again. “Yes, Tommen?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” She smiled over at the boy.

“When are you going to move into our house?”

Brienne choked on nothing, the car swerving for a moment, but there was thankfully no one around. “What?”

“I just think it’s about time. You’ve got to be tired of sneaking in through the window.”

 


	2. In Which There is a Discovery, a Jab, and a Breaking and Entering

 

“What do you mean there’s nothing you can do?” Jaime shouted into his phone at his lawyer, waving his stump over the back of the sofa as an apology to Tommen for the noise.

The poor boy sat in the dining room doing his homework and had been subjected to Jaime’s tirade for the last ten minutes as he remained nearly flat on the sofa with his stump flailing in the air around his head. He’d punch things if he had a fist left. Myrcy’s door upstairs creaked, so Jaime lowered his voice. The last thing he wanted was for the girls to hear that he knew about _things_.

He spoke in a near-whisper, “Do you fail to understand that I don’t give a hairy auroch’s ass about the terms of service?”

Mr. Varys, esquire, muttered something from the other end, but Jaime had already heard the canned platitudes and calm suggestions of patience a hundred times over the last two days. It wasn’t enough that Fumblr had _just_ deleted the hateful blog that mocked Brienne and had banned the user. Jaime wanted blood, he wanted the blogger’s identity, and he wanted that nasty little shit to look him in the eye and cower in terror.

_“Jaime, it’s just not possible. The poster never actually threatened you or Ms. Tarth, so there are no grounds on which to launch an investigation. Fumblr is not going to release the identifying address just because someone was insulted.”_

“This isn’t about being insulted. I already told you that. I just don’t see how a public website can be so lax about publicizing the actual lives of normal, real people.” Jaime sighed. At least Brienne wouldn’t be able to find those awful posts any longer.

The lawyer took a moment to respond. _“I think that’s your problem right now. Neither you nor Ms. Tarth are_ normal _precisely. You’re from a prominent and press-loved family, and she’s a public figure. Honestly, I’m more surprised there isn’t more to deal with in this situation, and it seems there’s far more positive publicity than negative. Hold on to that.”_

“Fine,” Jaime growled. “But I’m not done with this. One hint…one _word_ posted anywhere, and I want to know.”

It was the lawyer’s turn to growl. _“It’s not my purview to monitor the internet for you, Jaime. Get a PA to do it, or hire a publicist to manage things from behind the scenes.”_

“You’re just a fountain of assistance.” Jaime hung up, too agitated to care about civility.

He tossed the phone down into the cushions, running his fingers through his hair. He never thought _he’d_ need a publicist. He didn’t want to be public, he just wanted to be ignored by anyone not living in his house or not named Tyrion or Brienne. Still…he was doing well that year, with several lucrative new clients, and he could afford a little help.

Brienne’s manager would certainly know someone to call, but that meant Goodwin would have to be _told_. Jaime couldn’t stand Goodwin. The old codger thrived on attention for Brienne whether she wanted it or not, and it was nearly always _not_. Goodwin would just see a hate blog as a sign she’d gotten popular enough to hate at all. No help in that department.

Jaime could definitely not call his father. Out of the question. Tyrion would mock the situation, want to help, but would probably make things worse somehow.

The thumping of shoes on the front steps broke his concentration.

“Brienne’s here!” Tommen announced as if Jaime couldn’t hear on his own even though he was closer to the door.

He smiled to himself. It was nice that Brienne was such a constant presence her gait was recognizable by everybody in the house. He hated that she ever left at all.

Before he could even catch her eye as she walked in, Tommen called out, “Brienne can I ask you something?”

Jaime spotted a weird glint of panic on her face as she moved quickly to the dining room, stooping over Tommen’s shoulder.

“It’s about fractions,” he said, craning to look up at her.

She visibly sighed in relief and glanced up to see Jaime. He winked like an idiot, and it succeeded in triggering her fantastic blush. He sank back into the cushions as Tommen complained about his maths.

“See the shaded figure?” Brienne began with clear patience in her tone. “Imagine it as a pie cut into slices, and you count how many slices have been eaten and how many remain. If the pie had ten slices when it was fresh, and four have been eaten, how many are left?”

“Six,” Tommen answered immediately.

“Now think of the relationship between the slices that are left and whole pie. There are six slices left out of ten. Can you write that as a fraction?”

“Six over ten?” Tommen scribbled. Jaime twisted to watch them again.

“Exactly. So what’s next?” Brienne grinned down at Tommen, one of the few people she was totally free with.

Tommen crinkled his brow before writing more. “Simplify, I think.”

“See, you know what to do. Don’t doubt yourself.” She ruffled the boy’s hair. “So what’s the answer?”

“Three over five?”

“Perfect! If ever in doubt, think of pie,” Brienne whispered as if it were a secret.

“I know I do!” Jaime couldn’t help but add. Brienne flashed him a chiding grimace.

“Thank you! Can you help me tomorrow? We get something new again.” Tommen peered up at her with huge eyes. Jaime almost thought he was doing it on purpose, but that wasn’t like Tommen. That would be Myrcy’s realm.

“Sure. Maybe I’ll even bring pie. As a _visual aid_ of course.” Brienne’s kind smile remained when she looked up, her eyes twinkling a little as met his gaze. “Ready for your appointment?”

“I’d absolutely love to. Sounds like a blast,” he grumbled, struggling to sit up, fighting off the stiffness and pain that stubbornly lingered. Brienne had insisted on a trip to the doctor’s since his back wasn’t getting better. Jaime hated the doctor almost as much as he hated his lawyer at the moment, but he was fed up with watching Brienne walk out the door every night after dinner, knowing she wouldn’t sneak back in.

A low shuffle sounded from the hall. His fond smile quickly faded into a grimace as he saw all three girls standing in the hall like paper cutout dolls. Myrcy at least had the decency to duck her head. She’d been so moody of late.

“We just wanted to say hi to Brienne,” Myrcy said softly.

Jaime forced himself to relax. The strange trio in front of him might be misguided and manipulative, but they had good hearts and had only been trying to help in their bizarre way. He really hoped university would ground them a little.

He gestured into the living room. “Well then?”

Myrcy and Sansa stepped inside and waved at Brienne, quickly overcoming their awkwardness to dart over and hug her. She was always gracious about it, but Jaime could tell she was still uncomfortable with so much adulation. He winked again, knowing it made him a quintessential _dork_ in Myrcy’s book.

But where was Margaery…oh. Right there at the foot of the couch staring at him with her standard Tyrell smirk. He didn’t budge from his stiff perch on the cushion.

“Hello, Margaery,” he said very, very politely.

“Hello, Uncle Jaime. Sorry about your back. I’ve heard that strenuous activity can do that to a man.” She looked so innocent, so unsuspecting.

Never in a million years. Did she know? How could she know? They’d been so careful to sneak around, and Brienne never stayed over when the girls decided to camp out in Myrcy’s room overnight. They somehow heard _everything_.

He cleared his throat. “Well, yes, unfortunately. Just an injury. From _exercise_. Guess I’m an old man now.”

Margaery’s eyes lit up. That couldn’t be good. “I didn’t know you’d gotten into such hardcore stuff. What do you like? Mountain biking? Fencing? Mattress yoga?”

He could feel himself blanch. He knew it, and he couldn’t stop it. Margaery _saw_ and she immediately snapped her gaze to Brienne. _Don’t look, don’t look at her…_ Jaime reminded himself.

He looked. Brienne’s cheeks were flame red as she stepped around Sansa and Myrcy to jangle her keys. “Time to go, Jaime.”

Margaery, that little she-Stranger, smirked more. Was it truly terrible to want to slap a teenage girl?

“Rock climbing!” he almost yelled. “It’s rock climbing. The thing I like. Injury. Stuff.”

“Interesting.” Margaery nodded as if it were the most fascinating thing she’d ever heard. “My brother Garlan is co-owner of a climbing gym. Very new, very posh, just around the corner from the Royal Conservatory. Why don’t I tell them to expect you and Brienne for a session once you’re better?”

Brienne looked as if she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or run for it. He peered at Margaery, daring her to press for more. “I’m sure we’d love that.”

“Excellent.” She smirked and calculated and glanced at her friends.

Jaime shook his head and heaved himself up off the couch. Brienne was there in an instant, her arm sliding around his waist to offer support.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Distraction.”

“Tell me about it.” He hobbled along with her and surreptitiously sniffed her hair. She’d used his shampoo, he could tell. So that’s where it had gone…

* * *

 

Margaery leaned against the couch hot Uncle Jaime had just vacated, staring at the empty hall where he’d left with Brienne. Sansa was humming the chorus of the song for Loras and Renly’s Flash Mob of Doom while Myrcy commented.

And Myrcy was wrong. Not about the song which was neither good nor bad at this point, after three solid days of work. But about hot Uncle Jaime and Brienne. Margaery didn’t believe in the so-called _honeymoon period_. She’d _seen_ things and had _experience_. Couples who got together because of hotness burned bright but fast, and maybe they stayed together even, but it wasn’t hot for long. Uncle Jaime might be the hottest man she’d ever seen, and she would always, always want to lick his abs, but he wasn’t with Brienne because of hotness.

Margaery thought anybody could see that hot Uncle Jaime was totes in love. Brienne was a twinkling unicorn of talent and magic fairy dust, but despite what Myrcy and Sansa insisted, she _wasn’t_ the prettiest girl. She just wasn’t. Which made Margaery all the more sure that hot Uncle Jaime and Brienne were _not_ a couple whose flame would burn out.

So, there was something else at play. If Myrcy didn’t see what she used to see in the lust department, it had to be because they were hiding it on purpose. Margaery had seen the wink. She’d seen the blush, and the looks, and the total, total _lie_ about rock climbing. Hot Uncle Jaime had totes injured himself doing some kinky sex thing. Obvs. _Brienne, you saucy minx_ , as Grandmother would say.

There was only one thing to do. She herself would have to up the surveillance and _prove_ how crazy they still were about each other, or Myrcy would continue to freak out, and Sansa would copy her because Sansa loved to freak out like it was some hobby. And of course, _then_ they’d have to figure out why hot Uncle Jaime and/or Brienne insisted on groping only in private. Margaery wondered how many hickies Brienne was hiding and where they might be located. Hot Uncle Jaime probably had some, too, what with his abs.

She pulled out her phone and sent a quick text to Jeyne, the captain of their OTP street team, most of whom were freshies and had absolutely nothing to do but impress seniors. _Target @ KL ortho clinic. Surveil!_

 _On it!_ Jeyne replied.

A throat cleared that didn’t belong to her friends, and Margaery spotted Tommen at the dining room table.

“Would it be all right if you continue to develop your melody and lyrics and such upstairs, please? Fractions are very difficult.”

The poor boy was trying so hard to be pleasant about his annoyance. Margaery laughed right at him. “Come on girls, the kiddo needs space.”

Margaery turned to climb the stairs, but stopped abruptly. “ _Tommen!_ ” she shouted, spinning and pointing at him with a perfectly shaped fingernail lacquered in Quil Blue.

“What?” the boy asked, leaning back in his chair as if he could escape through the slats.

“What?” her friends asked in unison.

“Tommen,” Margaery breathed. “You, it’s you. It’s totes you.”

“What’s me? I didn’t do anything!” Tommen looked actually upset.

“Oh dear boy, no, you’re fine, I swear!” Margaery jumped up and down. “It’s just _you_. Okay, good luck with fractions. They’re bitches. Come on girls!”

She ran up the stairs.

“Language, Marg!” Myrcy chided.

“Sorry!”

“What is happening?” Sansa wailed.

As soon as Marg slammed Myrcy’s door behind them, she began to pace, hands on hips and a burning need to make out/snog or _kiss_ as the old people just said. She did her best thinking when being groped. Where was Gendry? It wouldn’t be that satisfying, but he wasn’t _awful_ for a junior.

Myrcy jumped in front of her and gripped her arms. “What. Is. Going. On?!?”

And Marg remembered that she couldn’t say just yet. Myrcy would throw herself into _fixing_ Tommen so he wouldn’t get in the way of hot Uncle Jaime’s true love story, or trying to somehow manipulate hot Uncle Jaime and/or Brienne in ridiculous ways that would definitely backfire. Myrcy was just way too high strung lately to handle this. Besides, her two dearest virgin friends simply didn’t understand the intricacies and nuances of sex and what to look for and how to make people horny. It was up to _her_ , being freshly eighteen and all.

It would have been easy to get their OTP to remember their attraction if that was the real problem, but it wasn’t, and the reality would require a _lot_ more thought to figure out. How could they get around a super adult style of idiocy about a little kid’s knowledge of love? Because the reason for hiding _so_ much lust just had to be because of Tommen being a kid. Yes, definitely. She was already eighteen and totally even more adult than a lot of _adult_ adults, and Myrcy and Sansa would soon be adults, too. They were no stranger to lust. Well, okay, _she_ wasn’t. But kids…

Marg cleared her throat. “It’s nothing. I just…seeing Tommen there being all little boy and stuff just made me think how Gendry is kind of a little boy in his brain. I…maybe it’s not worth it just for the next month.”

Marg had meant to lie through her teeth, but she thought maybe she actually wasn’t. Weird.

“So dump him then.” Sansa shrugged.

“Yeah. Totally.” Myrcy finally released her grip on Marg’s forearms and sighed heavily. “And don’t be so weird again.”

“So…” Marg adopted her comforting smirk of superiority and changed the subject. “How’s the song coming? You’ve got what, two days left to finish?”

Sansa averted her gaze and seemed to find the ceiling fascinating. “Good. I hope. Probably. We…Willas came up with a nice poppy melody, and I wrote a chorus and a few verses, but that’s all we…there is so far. Tonight had better give us the rest for sure.”

“You missed Sansa singing it. It’s so pretty!” Myrcy proclaimed.

“I want to hear. Please, Sansa?”

Sansa swallowed thickly and twisted her fingers together. “Okay. We’re…it’s called _I’m a Gardener and You’re an Architect_. We…there needed to be something to use as a metaphor for Jaime and Brienne as people, and Willas suggested occupations. So I thought of those because Jaime just does stuff and sees what happens, but Brienne likes to plan everything and weigh her decisions.”

Marg didn’t say that she was pretty sure Sansa’s analysis wasn’t all that accurate, but it was just a tribute song. It only had to be perfect, not correct, and _I’m a Businessman and You’re an Author_ just didn’t sound at all good.

Sansa continued, “So the chorus goes like, _I’m a gardener baby and you’re an architect, I’m a dreamer baby and you lay the bricks. I planted seeds to watch us grow and you made the plans to keep the glow. So I’m a gardener baby and you’re the architect of love.”_

“It’s just so beautiful!” Myrcy repeated.

Marg nodded slowly. Yes, it was a tad maudlin, but all love songs were, and she could just picture Loras and Renly’s hoard of uni seniors in matching sweater vests belting it out right in the middle of Baelor’s Square with hundreds of people watching and cameras and…

Yes, that was it. The performance was in two weeks, so she had those two weeks to prove their OTP love to her friends, get said OTP into a state of sexual frenzy until they could no longer deny their lust in public, and force that OTP into attending the acappela flash mob performance to hear their very own dedicated love song. Ooh, maybe hot Uncle Jaime would even snog the shit out of Brienne right then and there! Maybe he’d even…no, she wouldn’t let herself think of sparkly rings. It was _too much._

“Marg? Is it bad?” Sansa whispered.

“No! It’s amazeballs! Perfection, darling! I mean it.” Margaery nodded manically.

Sansa sighed in relief. “Oh good. I was worried.” Her phone dinged from its perch in her hand. “It’s hater-watch o’clock.”

“Ugh, just check it already. Might as well see what we’re dealing with today.” Myrcy sank back on the bed.

“It can’t be worse than that horse manip.” Marg cringed.

Sansa scrolled through Fumblr quickly, her expression shifting from resignation to confusion to shock. “It’s gone! Like _totes_ gone!”

“What?!” Marg and Myrcy gasped.

“Did she finally just block us? Marg added.

Sansa tapped more things. “No joke, it’s _gone_!” She gaped at her friends. “No one on the street team sees it. They messaged me. Fumblr must have taken it down finally!”

Myrcy leapt from the bed and held her arms out in front of her with her palms facing Sansa. “Hold up, is this victory? Is it a trick? Is the hater ded or just hiding under her bridge of haterness?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll just make a new blog since she vowed on every drop of blood in her cold ded veins that she would never stop hating us, but this is _something_. And it _still_ might be a guy.” Marg nodded in satisfaction.

“It’s not a guy, Marg,” Myrcy insisted.

“It could be a gay guy like Loras. He’d make an excellent troll.”

Myrcy frowned. “Okay maybe.”

All three of their phones dinged at the same time, but they turned to Sansa since hers was already out.

“Um, guys…we have a new message. An _anon_.” Sansa grimaced.

“It’s her! It’s gotta be _her_! Or _him!_ ” Myrcy jumped up and down. “Trace her/him quick! Maybe she/he’s forgotten to mask his/her IP on this one!”

Margaery sighed. They’d traced all the hater’s previous messages to no avail. The troll had skillz. “Sansa, you trace it and I’ll read it.” She cleared her throat, feeling herself start to snarl as she scanned the brief message. “ _Lolz bitches, u can’t kill me ded. I will destory u & ur h8 of love and ur stoopid OTP. Peace.”_

“What? She’s going to _destory_ us?” Myrcy glared.

“Destroy, obvs.” Marg re-read the message. “But what does she/he mean that we hate love? We _love_ love!”

“We love love above all other loves!” Myrcy threw a pillow against a wall so hard it knocked a frame down.

“Guys!!!!” Sansa shouted, her face glowing like she had a flashlight inside her cheeks.

“You found her!” Myrcy shrieked. “Or him. Did you find her/him? Where is she/he? Is she a hideous gross beast with boils and chin hairs? Or him.”

Sansa’s expression of awe turned into one of lobster-red fury. “Oh, I found her/him. The anon just came from the library at King’s Landing Prep. Guys, the hater goes to our school!”

All three girls remained silent for several long moments, staring at each other with sharp breaths near to hyperventilation.

Myrcy finally sucked in so much air she coughed, but it didn’t stop her from screaming. “Tommen! Grab your emergency apple snack and _move!_ We’re going to school!”

They all stampeded out of the door and down the stairs. Sansa darted out the front door immediately, already on the phone with Willas to explain why she’d be late to their songwriting session. Marg texted for her driver who was waiting down the road at Hot Pie’s Hot Pies. Myrcy shut a wandering Ser Pounce inside hot Uncle Jaime’s office amidst a flurry of scratching and mewling, and then she yanked Tommen by the arm so fast he couldn’t even protest.

In minutes, they were bundled in the back of a Tyrell car with limbs tangled together and shrill commentary, and poor little Tommen crouched on the seat, shell-shocked.

* * *

 

Brienne wondered what it would be like, not driving constantly between her flat and Jaime’s house. It would save time, certainly. And fuel. Her feet didn’t get cold in his bed since it was so big. Sure, that was why and not that he was in the bed with her. She swallowed and stopped her wandering thoughts in their tracks.

Jaime had been angry about something, not at her, but something that bothered him deeply. She could tell during the car ride. She thought he must have spoken to his father, or maybe even to Cersei. Or maybe Joffrey was in jail again. No, Tywin dealt with Joffrey. But it was something. And he’d looked so peaceful just the day before, napping on the couch, though he hated sleeping on his back. He liked to move and tangle his limbs with hers. He liked to be on his stomach. Her mind wandered to images of his naked back draped with the white duvet, and she could even see that every day if…

 _Thanks, Tommen_. _Much appreciated._ Brienne grumbled to herself, wanting to be angry at the boy for putting notions like _moving in_ into her head. She couldn’t just up and _move_ into Jaime’s house with the children there. What would her father think? What would _she_ think? It would be entirely unlike her.

What would Jaime think? Would he want that? He could be clingy like a marsupial auroch’s baby, but would he want her around _all the time?_ How could she even find out? He’d agree enthusiastically to anything she asked before really thinking about it. What if it made him or her or them miserable?

Still, she would be able to get more writing done if she were in one place for more than half a day at a time. But she didn’t have to cohabit with Jaime to do that. She should stay home more and work. Her flat didn’t feel like home anymore when Jaime wasn’t there, and he rarely was because of Tommen.

“Stag for your thoughts?” Jaime grinned and bumped her with his shoulder.

She leaned against the orthopedics’ examination table where Jaime was perched, the shirt that stretched over his biceps replaced by one of those awful hospital gowns with the open back and pastel patterns. Jaime should look totally ridiculous, but he never did.

She cleared her throat. “Thinking about Tommen.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly.

“Really?” Jaime’s brows rose.

She couldn’t meet his green gaze just then, or the blush would come along and betray her. “His cat show’s in a few days, and if you’re not up to walking around, we’ll have to see if Tyrion can help you while I’m gone.”

“That show’s here already?” Jaime shook his head. “Didn’t we just have one?”

“Six months ago.”

“Time flies.” He smiled and snaked his arm around her to pull her close. “And there’s not enough of it spent with you.”

“Don’t twist like that or you’ll make your back worse,” she insisted, but she didn’t move away.

“They’ll fix it. That’s why I’m here.” He splayed his hand over her stomach, one finger dipping into her navel through her shirt.

She sucked in a breath, almost angry at his ability to make her lose focus without even trying. The pressure of his hand was _exactly right_. He wasn’t even touching her skin, but it didn’t matter. Ever since that first day at Olenna Tyrell’s oppressive party where he whisked her away and ripped her dress open, he could flash her a single look, or drag a finger over her wrist, or just be in the same room and she’d feel it like he was seeping into her blood.

His finger pressed. She knew he’d be wearing _that_ look, and if she turned enough to see, he’d bite his lip and she’d be gone.

“We’ve been waiting a while,” he said in that low, gravelly voice he sank into when he teased.

“Not a chance,” she chided.

“Just a kiss, just one. There’s nothing else to do, Brienne.” His tongue wrapped around the syllables of her name and purred them out.

She glanced at the closed door. She snuck a look at his hand on her stomach. She turned in his embrace and bent to catch his lips, her palms on his cheeks and her breath catching in her lungs. There was never just _one_ kiss.

She heard a knock or something. Ignored it. Jaime completely overwhelmed her as usual, and despite his position sitting on the table with her bent over to match him, he still somehow felt bigger and stronger than her, and far more powerful. His tongue glided along her lower lip, and his hand snuck into her back pocket.

A throat cleared.

Brienne jerked up and felt her skin heat as the blood rushed to the surface. She refused to look at the doctor, fixating on the linoleum instead. Jaime was, as always, totally unashamed.

“Hello, doc. You really should have a television or something in here. Patients get bored.”

Doctor Pycelle did not chuckle. Brienne risked a glance up to see an unamused face peering at Jaime.

“It seems you’ve thrown your back out. Twisting as you just were is probably not the best therapy.” The doctor’s voice was stern.

“Speak for yourself,” Jaime muttered. “Anyway, work your magic so I can _twist_ without further injury, please.”

The doctor shifted his analytical eyes to Brienne for a moment. It was quick, but she felt almost physically the all-too-familiar pressure of appraisal. He scanned her and turned away. Still, she could see. She had always seen, but it was so much worse when she was with Jaime since their clear relationship added an extra layer of puzzlement and disapproval. It was hard not being good enough.

Jaime spoke to the doctor, a dark tinge in his voice. He’d seen then. He rarely did, almost always missing the stares and the comments in his willfully ignorant Lannister bubble. They were just things that accompanied her, though she couldn’t lie to herself and claim she was used to them.

She could feel Jaime’s gaze on her every few seconds as the doctor examined Jaime’s back. She couldn’t look at him, or he’d catch her peering at the doctor with that old pleading look she knew she resorted to when somebody mocked her. It was no longer necessary. She knew that.

The doctor said something about a jab. She kept her gaze on a painting of a beach. It didn’t matter what anybody thought except for the people she loved, which she could count on one hand. She took a deep breath.

Jaime’s hand gripped hers with almost bone-crushing strength. “Seven hells!” he shouted.

His pained grimace snapped Brienne from her morose thoughts. She returned his grip and wrapped her other arm around his shoulders. “What are you doing?” She heard the anger in her voice as she watched the doctor withdraw a terrifyingly long needle from Jaime’s back.

“Just stay still for a moment, please,” the doctor grumbled.

Jaime buried his face between her meager breasts. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he gritted out.

“I warned you it would be painful.” The doctor almost sounded gleeful about it. He stepped back and nodded in satisfaction. “It’s just a strain of the sacroiliac, and the cortisone will provide relief within a day or so. You can return to uh, normal activity in three days.”

“Thanks, doc.” Jaime breathed in relief as the shock of the jab subsided.

Brienne glared. This doctor was an ass. He left without another word, and Brienne threaded her fingers through Jaime’s hair. “Sorry I told you to come here. I don’t like him.”

Jaime glanced up at her, darkness tinging his green. “That’s because he’s a judgmental idiot. But we can get out of here now and go home.” His grimace turned into a sly grin. “You know, there are plenty of things to do when on one’s back.”

Her blush returned, but she fought it off. “Absolutely not.” She pulled the gown from his shoulders and helped him into his shirt.

“You’re no fun.” He pouted, and she could tell he didn’t mean it as he did up his buttons.

In a rare show of bravado, because he looked like such a boy with his stupid beautiful eyes peering at her, she shrugged. “That’s not what you said right before you threw your back out.”

She opened the door before he could respond and led him out. The back of her neck burned since from his gaze.

As they moved into the lobby, Brienne caught sight of a young girl ducking behind an aquarium. She had her phone out, pointed straight at them. She was probably a fan, and while Brienne really didn’t enjoy being spotted in public, she wasn’t nearly famous enough for it to matter that much. She had learned to ignore it for the most part.

Jaime stepped ahead of her, and Brienne was surprised to see a feral frown twisting his lips. He glared at the poor girl until she dropped her phone, and blocked Brienne from her sightline until they’d made it out the door. Jaime’s fist was clenched and his shoulders tense.

“What—” she began, but Jaime’s phone rang with Tommen’s special tone.

Jaime flashed an apology look and put the phone on speaker. “What is it, Tommen?” Jaime asked with concern tinting his tone.

_“Would it be convenient for you to come get me?”_

“You aren’t home?” Jaime’s voice rose. “Where are you?”

 _“At Myrcy’s school. It seems that I, and Myrcy, and Sansa Stark, and Margaery Tyrell, and an older boy who I do not know but who looks a_ lot _like Uncle Renly, and a janitor, and a lizard in a cage are locked inside because the boy who looks like Uncle Renly brought a sword and set off the metal detector. I think the police might be coming. And I am very concerned about Ser Pounce as he has been locked in your office for two hours.”_

            


	3. In Which There is a Lizard, a Doppelganger, and a Dilemma.

 

Jaime sat on one end of the couch with pillows piled high to support his back, his arms crossed over his chest, and a deadly serious expression on his face. Brienne sat on the other end, flushed with embarrassment over being there at all. He’d had to ask _three times_ before she agreed to stay and receive a proper apology from the girls and a thanks for going out of her way to help them. He’d be damned to the seven hells before he let her get away with her absurd habit of thinking she didn’t deserve basic respect. Besides, he didn’t feel that he could get through this teenage hell without her. He no longer felt that he could get through _life_ without her.

Between them, Tommen was curled into a ball around Ser Pounce’s quivering, fat body. Jaime did not _like_ Ser Pounce precisely, but he was protective of the foul beast by extension. That bloody cat was the thing Tommen loved best in the world. Despite its permanent feline scowl, Ser Pounce had a fragile constitution and was just about as co-dependent with Tommen as the boy was with him. Being locked in the office alone for nearly four hours had _not_ been a good experience.

Jaime sighed. He’d have to replace the blinds. And his desk chair which had been shredded. And his lamp, the vase Tyrion had gotten him for his birthday because Tyrion was an idiot, and all of his notebooks. Several books needed repair, as did his laptop screen. The scene was nearly as much a wreck as the faces of the four teenagers sat in a line across from him, the three girls with their arms tangled around each other, and the boy.

At least he’d been able to convince the police that there was no need to arrest Gendry because of the sword, and that it was all just a misunderstanding. Jaime knew the Lannister name had something to do with the acceptance of his explanation, but for once he couldn’t be bothered by that. He wouldn’t be surprised if that poor janitor, Peck or something, would quit. He felt his teeth grinding together as he stared at the row of contrite faces.

On the coffee table, a lizard blinked manically from inside a cheap cage.

Jaime focused on it, because it was the least annoying living thing in the room. Brienne didn’t count. She was never annoying. He cleared his throat. “First, why exactly is there a lizard?”

Silence. Then Myrcy raised her hand as if there were in school. _Good_.

“Yes?”

She sniffed. “Tommen refused to leave it behind.” She didn’t look up from her lap.

Jaime glanced at Tommen. “Is that true?” He already knew it was and had assumed the one portion of this insanity related to Tommen would be the animal.

Tommen nodded, each down motion making his chin disappear into Ser Pounce’s fur. Jaime decided to blame his slow thinking on painkillers rather than a total inability to handle his wards, as he realized only then that removing the lizard from the school probably meant Tommen had stolen it.

He sighed. Again. “Is the lizard the school’s property?”

Tommen nodded.

“Do you understand it must be returned?”

Tommen sat bolt upright, clutching Ser Pounce so the beast wouldn’t be unprotected. “No! We can’t! It was being abused!”

Jaime glanced at the lizard. It looked fine, and this situation was going to be worse than he’d anticipated. “Tom—”

“No! You don’t understand! A Sothyrian Blue Lizard with his mating stripes already in should be at least one-third larger than this one.” Tommen twisted to glance at Brienne. “See! I’m using fractions!” Back to Jaime. “And he was kept in the library where it was only twenty degrees when he needs at least twenty-three degrees at all times, and while I understand that temperature is not economical for an institution, he should have had a heat lamp and fresh lettuce or beet greens.”

Tommen sucked in a breath while Jaime was still caught up in the boy’s use of _mating stripes_ in casual conversation, and any reference at all to beet greens. Above all things, Tommen hated beets. And he had no doubt that Tommen was correct about the animal’s health. He ran his fingers through his hair and grimaced.

Tommen sniffed. “Please, Uncle Jaime? I would take care of Briann forever, I promise!”

Jaime peered at Tom in dismay. “ _Briann_?” He stole a look at Brienne’s face, and she was torn between maintaining her serious if mortified placidity and completely cracking up.

“I named him after Brienne. Because fractions, but he’s a boy, so Briann.”

It was too late. The scaly creature had been named. But how was he supposed to let Tommen keep stolen school property? He knew how, just be a Lannister. He’d have to call the school in the morning and _buy_ the damned lizard, but if he said that in front of the children, they’d just learn to think that they could always get their way by flashing bills. He wasn’t cut out for this. He looked over at Brienne again, trying to catch her eye for _something_. He didn’t even know what.

She saw, nodded so slightly it was barely a movement at all, and her eyes spoke. She understood and agreed, he knew. He felt instant relief.

And the thing had been _named_ , so really, he had no choice.

“All right, Tom, I’ll call the school and ask if they would be far kinder than we deserve and allow you to keep… _Briann_.” He tried to look as serious as he could. “But if they say no, we’ll have to give him back, okay?”

Tommen looked horrified, but he nodded and hid his face in fur. Jaime thought he could hear a faint whisper of, _I’ll save you Briann_.

And now for the worst. “Girls. And Gendry. Now that the lizard is sorted, what do you have to say for yourselves?”

The girls looked at each other. The boy, Gendry, remained stoic and silent, his hands wrapped around a sheathed sword which rested across his lap. He really _did_ look like Renly. It was uncanny. And a little bit gross since Margaery appeared to be dating the spitting image of her brother’s boyfriend. They must have a type.

At least the boy was brave. He spoke with a heavy Fleabottom accent. “Very sorry, ser. It’s my fault we got locked in. ‘Cause of the sword. I make ‘em in shop. I like shop, and swords. I should know better, being a scholarship chap.”

Jaime wanted to smile. The boy was clever, subtly trying to gain some empathy to avoid being suspended or having his tuition taken away. Jaime had no doubt this mess was the girls’ fault, and not Gendry’s. He’d been a pawn just like Tommen.

“It’s quite all right. I’d just like to know why you went to the school after hours.”

Margaery cleared her throat. “If I may?” She didn’t wait for permission. “I texted him. We needed…backup.”

Jaime would lean forward to do that glare/loom combination of guardian authority if he were able. He had to settle for the glare part alone. “Backup for what?”

“Um…we were trying to find someone in the school library. She ran away from us before we could see her, so we split up and covered the exits, but there was one left. We needed another person. So Gendry. See?”

“Or he,” Sansa whispered so quietly Jaime wasn’t sure he heard right.

“Yes,” Marg continued. “We were trying to do the right thing!”

Myrcy, who had been the quietest of them all, burst out at the top of her lungs. “It was a hater! A bloody hating hater who hates and is trying to hurt Br—us. We were trying to stop him/her from…hating!”

Jaime’s glare evaporated. Were they talking about what he thought they were talking about? No, it couldn’t be…but the fire in their eyes certainly betrayed real anger at something. So this wasn’t just teenage mischief.

He’d had that disgusting Fumblr taken down, and it would be just like whoever ran it to go after Brienne’s supporters in retaliation. He’d thought he’d won that round, but it appeared to be just a setback for the _hater_.

He was silent for so long that Brienne’s quiet voice filtered over Tommen and Ser Pounce’s purring. “What is it?”

He didn’t know why, but he looked at Margaery. Just for a second, maybe less, but it was enough. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, and she didn’t appear to be trying to seduce him even a little. She _knew_. And now she knew that _he_ knew. He used another look to silently plead with her, _Don’t tell._ She nodded.

Sansa began to cry. Then Myrcy cried. Margaery slipped her phone out of her pocket and texted so expertly she barely looked at the screen. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and he could only hope she’d learned to be adult enough to communicate without innuendo. He’d figure it out later.

“We’re so sorry!” Sansa wailed.

“Totes sorry!” Myrcy sputtered. “We didn’t mean to take Tommen out and get locked in school and steal a lizard!”

“Yes, hot Uncle Jaime. We’re very sorry.” Marg didn’t look sorry at all. She looked defiant. He could hardly blame her if he were honest.

He sighed. For the tenth or hundredth time. He wasn’t sure. He took his wallet out and withdrew a few bills. “Gendry, take this and hail a cab. Go home. I’ll make sure the school knows you had no part in this beyond being lured into the building.”

The boy looked startled. “I can’t take nothing from you, ser. Wouldn’t be right.”

“Of course you can.” Jaime held the bills out further. “Please. I have to know you’ll get home safe since it’s already dark out.”

Gendry flushed a little as he reluctantly took the bills, standing and gripping his sword. He looked at it, almost fondly, and then adopted a resolved expression. He set the sword carefully on the table. “I want you to have this. As a thanks for not lettin’ me get arrested and stuff.”

The boy was so serious that Jaime wanted to laugh. He didn’t dare, though, he merely mirrored the serious expression of manly solidarity and nodded. “It’s a handsome weapon. It will decorate my newly refurbished office.”

The boy nodded. Jaime nodded. The boy nodded and turned to Margaery. “Well bye.”

“Bye,” she said without much feeling.

Jaime couldn’t help himself. “Gendry…I would seriously reconsider dating _any_ of this lot. They’re mad.”

“Yeah, you probably should,” Marg admitted with a smile.

Gendry chuckled. “Nah. Got nothin’ better to do ‘til summer.”

He turned to go as Marg looked furious. Good. A taste of her own medicine for once.

Myrcy and Sansa were still crying, clutching each other. Jaime stuffed his wallet back into his pocket and managed to glance at his phone. Margaery’s message was, _U got fumblr down?!?_

He waited until Margaery glanced at him and blinked a _yes_. She blinked. She stared intensely. She pretended a cough so she could draw her finger over her throat in a kill gesture. He blinked. She nodded.

“As for you three,” Jaime continued, just wanting this to be over, “you’re grounded.”

Sansa bawled.

Tommen peeked over Ser Pounce. “Margaery Tyrell is eighteen.”

Jaime cleared his throat. “Oh. Well…”

“It’s okay, hot Uncle Jaime. I can be grounded. If that’s what you _want_.” Marg’s brow rose.

Remarkable, how well they could communicate. Or terrifying more likely. If she were kept from pursuing the _hater_ , Brienne would just be subject to more insults. As much as he hated to admit it, he might actually need her and the girls’ network of crazies. Never in a million years did he think he’d willingly enter an alliance with a Tyrell, let alone the most audacious and disrespectful Tyrell the Tyrells had ever produced. He really would do anything for Brienne.

“I suppose that’s up to your Grandmother.” He nodded and hoped she understood. “And I guess I can only ground you, Myrcy.”

“I’ll be grounded with her! I deserve it!” Sansa wailed. “But please don’t tell my mother! She won’t understand! My father would understand, because what we did was for _honor_ , you know? _Honor_!”

Jaime had no idea what he was doing. He’d forgotten Sansa even had a family since they never appeared anywhere and essentially hated him. It was a miracle they let Sansa remain friends with Myrcy. “All right then…three days? Three days. Three?”

“I think a week,” Myrcy suggested.

“That would be fair,” Sansa agreed.

“And if I may?” Margaery interjected and then didn’t wait for approval. “If Sansa were grounded _here_ , with Myrcy, we’d all be out of trouble. I mean, _I_ could come and go, and bring them what they need and stuff, and then maybe spend some time _looking_ for mutually beneficial _things_ , and such.”

“Oh hells,” Jaime muttered. If Myrcy were home all the time for an entire week, there would _definitely_ be no chance of Brienne sneaking back in when his back was healed. She was somehow aware of everything that happened in the house, and with Sansa there, too? “Three days. That’s it.”

“Okay.” Sansa sniffed.

“Okay.” Myrcy nodded. “And also, we’re very sorry, Brienne, that you had to drive over and get us.”

Jaime was glad that they’d apologized unprompted. One less thing for him to figure out.

“Oh, that…that’s quite all right.” Brienne blushed. He wasn’t looking at her, but he knew.

He was surprised when she spoke again.

“Since tomorrow is Friday, Myrcy, could you look after your uncle over the weekend? I need to write.” She was very hesitant and stumbling, as if she weren’t sure what she really wanted.

Jaime wanted to yell objections. Three days without seeing her at all? What?

“What?” he said anyway.

She barely glanced at him. “I just…I must work on my book, Jaime. And I think that in _three days_ you’re going to be up and about more anyway. Remember?”

Three days. The amount of time when he could get back to _regular activity_. He felt a grin forming and stifled it. “Yes, of course. You need space.”

Brienne blanched. He didn’t understand why, but he knew he’d said the wrong thing. She rose, scratching Ser Pounce behind his ears and smiling at Tommen before grabbing her keys. “Myrcy, make sure he gets his painkiller at eleven, please? He needs sleep, and so do I.”

Myrcy nodded solemnly, and then she launched herself out of her chair and hugged Brienne ferociously. She mumbled nonsense against Brienne’s shirt which was quickly becoming damp. Brienne adopted her awkward face, but wrapped her arms around Myrcy with a few hesitant pats of the hand. Sansa stared at the whole scene with brimming eyes.

“No, no I can’t even,” she wailed and joined Myrcy. Their arms locked around Brienne in a vice grip.

He wanted to get up and extricate her from the girls’ insanity, but he could barely move. He glanced at Marg, hoping she would get another hint and help him out. She, too, was almost weeping. It was strange, and he realized he’d made the mistake of thinking she was more mature than Myrcy or Sansa just because she was more astute. She might be eighteen, but that meant next to nothing. He could see how she fought her desire to join her friends, and it took almost a minute for her to lose. His poor, embarrassed, sexy as hells Brienne would have to fight this battle of affection on her own.

 _Sorry_ , he mouthed as she looked up from the human knot around her to his face.

She smiled a little, flushed and flustered.

He mouthed something else, the thing that always made her freeze and take ages to say back in her own stammering way as if she wasn’t sure she quite believed him. He was working on that part.

This time, she blinked rapidly and ducked her head, pulling herself away from the girls until they finally let go. She waved at them and at Tommen. She blinked at him. She said, “Bye. Same.” And then she was out in the hall before Jaime could find an appropriate way to object rather than _No, I want you to stay and sleep in my bed!_

Exhaustion flooded him all at once. The only thing he could find to be grateful for at that moment was that Joffrey wasn’t anywhere around.

He leaned back into the pillows, throwing one arm around the Tommen/Ser Pounce entity. It was going to be a long three days.

* * *

 

“We can’t do it. It’s the impossiblest of impossibles and can’t be done. It _cannot_!” Sansa plopped back on Myrcy’s bed next to the poor dear girl.

“We have to! She can’t get away like this when we’re so close!” Myrcy cried.

“Or he,” Marg reminded.

Sansa felt nothing but despair. They’d failed in trapping the hater, and haters were the worst of _all_ the peoples of the planet, and because of being grounded for their failure for _three whole days_ , she was going to miss several songwriting sessions with Willas. Tyrell. Willas Tyrell, Margaery’s brother. He was very good with music, she thought. He had delicate fingers that held a pen nicely and made the lyrics she thought of look pretty on notepaper. Maybe it would go into a museum of popular culture someday when the song was famous and everywhere because brilliance.

“Or he! But what if he runs track and we’ll never catch him?” Myrcy shrieked.

Yes, the hater. Sansa felt tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Myrcy had been _so_ freaked out. All year, really. Sansa couldn’t really blame her. There was senior-year insanity, and uni coming up _so_ fast, and Myrcy had grown like four inches somehow and was feeling super awkward. And Sansa knew that Myrcy was afraid of going to uni, even though Myrcy was _also_ afraid of even saying that out loud, so everything was just _stupid_. So much change. Myrcy hated change, because of her _stupid_ mother and _stupid_ brother, and _all the stupid stupids._

And things _had_ changed. Marg had been through at least four boyfriends, though that Gendry boy hardly counted. Despite what Myrcy thought, Lysian tongue snogging was _not_ sex, like real sexy sex. And Myrcy’s mom had pretty much disappeared, and Joffrey the hag had gone to jail twice, and Tommen had moved on from pancakes even!

“We’ll catch him/her.” Marg’s tone was quiet and commanding, scary even.

“But _how_?” Myrcy shot upright and punched pillows.

Sansa blinked the tears away and sighed. “We need a new plan. I don’t think we can keep chasing around like this. We totes have to make the hater slip up him/herself.”

“Sansa! That’s brilliant!” Myrcy shouted.

“Hmm…” Marg propped her chin on her fist and looked like a marble statue in deep thought. “We need to narrow down the field first. Eliminate people at school who can’t possibly be the hater.”

“Yeah, and _then_ we crush the balls out of them!” Myrcy bellowed.

“Only if it’s a he,” Sansa added.

“Yeah! Whatever!”

“But how do we narrow it down?” Marg asked aloud, though it was pretty much to herself.

They’d need personal information to build profiles, like crimefighters. They needed a murder board! Sansa sat up. “Guys, we need a murder board! Like on Crime Scene Westeros: Stormlands PD Investigation.”

Marg’s face lit up. “And we need info to figure out who’s who, and you know how we get info?”

“How, how!?!!” Myrcy jumped up, making her bed bounce violently.

Marg looked at Sansa with a knowing glint in her eye. “You’re so good at so many things, Sansa. Like songwriting and stuff. And tech stuff. But you know who’s better?”

Willas. Tyrell. Willas Tyrell. Margaery’s brother.

“Your brother.” Sansa hoping she added enough nonchalance to the observation.

“My brother.” Marg nodded so hard her chin folded into her neck in that weird way people did in stupid-face selfies.

“Oh my gods, oh my gods, we’re totally going to hack into everyone’s Sparrow accounts and Fumblr accounts and MyFace accounts and _all the accounts_ and we’re going to find the little bastard who’s trying to hurt my future aunt! Take that bitches!” Myrcy jumped up and down.

“The swears are feeling more natural on you now, Myrcy,” Marg complimented.

“Thank you.” Myrcy beamed.

Marg continued. “This is going to be all hands on deck. We need the whole street team, and every single fan on board. I’m going to text _everyone ever_.”

“Obvs,” Myrcy confirmed.

Sansa cleared her throat. “So, uh, how is Willas, your brother, going to help?”

Marg grinned. “Oh simple. I’m going to tell him to come over here, because you two are grounded obvs, and you can finish up your song and then we’ll just tell him that someone is bullying one of us and we need to find out who, and he’ll want to help. I think we should say it’s you, because you’re the most fragile so it’ll be believable. I mean, he’s definitely not going to want someone to bully you, right Sansa?”

“Oh, uh…right. I mean, yeah.” Sansa cleared her throat again and felt hot in her cheeks and also everywhere.

“Okay then. I’m texting. Right. Now. Texting…done. He’s coming. Soon.” Marg stared right at her. “This is going to be epic.”

Willas Tyrell, Margaery’s brother, was coming over. To stop _her_ from being fake-bullied. Did he really care if she were fake-bullied? Oh gods, if he _did_ care…no. It was just Willas. Tyrell. Willas Tyrell, Margaery’s brother who had such beautiful fingers…

* * *

 

Brienne stretched her arms high above her head, her fingers locked together. She heard a click as she yawned, a sure sign she’d been clenching her teeth as she wrote. Her body felt stiff, her muscles underworked. She hadn’t kickboxed in a week. She was…exactly as she used be, tense and hyper-focused after only three days of her “old” life. Had it really been three days already? Had it been _only_ three days and not seventy-four years?

She’d been able to write thousands of words per week _before_ , more than just her now-famous Ian and Quil series. There were a dozen manuscripts lurking in her hard drive, stories that would never see the light of day and stories she’d probably revise at some point after her series was complete. All stories no one had ever seen but Jaime. He had particularly liked the one about the tall knight with the bald little squire.

She massaged the knot in her shoulder and stared at her screen. The final book was almost complete, had been for a month. The problem was the ending. She’d planned out Quil’s entire saga in her head when she a teenager, the same age as Myrcy, but she’d never dreamed of actually writing it down until her father found some of her random notes one day and asked about her stories. She’d never been serious about it.

Selwyn Tarth had told her that he loved her ideas and that she should think about letting others see them. She wrote and wrote some more, and Selwyn had sent something to his old friend, Goodwin, who assigned himself as her manager and found her an agent who found her a publisher.

But the ending…she’d always known what it would be. Always. It was the second thing she’d ever written, right after what became Chapter 14 of her first book, the infamous scene that Myrcy and the girls loved best of all.

Brienne scrubbed her eyes with her palms and blinked away the grit. She’d gone over and over this manuscript, trying desperately to make it work. That final chapter. She sighed. It was wrong. It would be so easy to just paste it right in there, right at the end where it should be and call it finished and let it fly away from her and into the hands of her readers.

She wondered if she should do the unthinkable and have the girls read the whole thing, ask what they thought. Would they hate it? Would they understand the tragedy of it? In the final chapter of the final book, as she’d always envisioned it, Quil sacrificed herself to save her queendom and died in Ian’s arms. He went on to help rule what Quil left behind, numb and reckless but better for having been loved. It wasn’t supposed to be a typical _happily ever after_. Those didn’t exist, she knew. She’d always known.

Her mother had died and had left her father alone, and yes, Brienne knew Selwyn was alone despite his numerous peroxide girlfriends. She’d known as a girl that she should never dream of fanciful things like soulmates and fairytale endings. People got left behind, all the time, if they were even lucky enough to be loved at all. She had always known never to expect that kind of thing for herself, not with the way she…was. So her final chapter had always ended in favor of reality rather than fancy.

But Brienne felt her gut churn every time she re-read the chapter. It was a stranger now, like something that was betraying her. She’d gotten soft. She couldn’t stomach the idea of killing her love story, and she knew absolutely that Jaime would hate it. He’d never say, he’d certainly lie, but his eyes wouldn’t be able to hide it. She’d wonder then for the rest of her life if she’d done the right thing by sticking to her original plan. But if she changed it, neutered it even, would that be cowardice?

She pulled her feet up to rest her heels precariously on the chair’s edge, folding her arms around her legs and resting her forehead on one knee. Sometimes when she sat like that in Jaime’s office after a long day, he’d come up behind her and work the tension from her neck with his one hand. His fingers would soon sneak into her hair and tug just a little to bring her head back up, and he’d bend down to kiss her and whisper that _thing_ in her ear, the thing that made her freeze in terror. Every once in a while if she was feeling particularly bold, she’d say something back. Always, she’d turn to kiss his lips. One of them would have to lock the office door then.

It was probably good to be away from him for a bit. She _had_ to figure out the book’s ending, and she’d been so consumed by Jaime’s world that she’d almost forgotten about her own. She liked the silence and solitude of her flat. She couldn’t believe how many days she could go with barely an hour spent at home. Did Jaime need more time to himself? What had he even meant by _space_? Did _he_ want space? Since Friday, he’d texted or phoned almost constantly. He’d mouthed the _things_ before she’d gone, but still…

 _Seven hells._ She didn’t want space. She wanted Jaime. He’d told her a thousand times to stop questioning his feelings for her, and she’d been trying so hard not to. She missed his stupid face and his constant griping, and that dumb smile he flashed when someone told a really awful joke. And she missed his body. Margaery Tyrell wasn’t the only one who called him hot, even though Brienne only thought it inside her own head. She’d barely been able to sleep alone in her bed, and even then she woke from dreams about the muscles in his arms and certain moves he made and things he said.

He said his back was better, fine even. He was quite enthusiastic in his texts about his potential post injury activities. She’d read an entire litany about her own legs and the constellations of freckles on her skin. He’d described them, in detail. There was apparently an exact map of The Stallion on her right shoulder blade that he wanted to trace with his tongue.

She sighed in exasperation as she felt her hated blush warm her face. She couldn’t even think about sex in the privacy of her own home _by herself_ without embarrassment. It was so idiotic. She knew he wasn’t pretending to want her. It wasn’t like he took those drugs to help old men… _be with_ women. He’d been too spontaneous in his… _reactions_ , as proof, though she didn’t need it. So she shouldn’t question. Really. She shouldn’t. She sat up straight in her chair and let her feet return to the carpet.

He was going to meet her at Tommen’s cat show in a few hours, and his back really was better. Maybe she could be bold. Maybe she should simply trust herself a little more. If she trusted herself, she’d do the right thing for her final chapter, and she’d maybe even tell Jaime how much she hated _space_.

Damn Tommen and his fanciful ideas. No, not sweet little Tommen. It wasn’t his fault.

She picked up her phone and called Tyrion before she could talk herself out of it.

He answered immediately. _“Well, well, if it isn’t my brother’s enormous slave master. Whatever you want, the answer is yes.”_

Brienne blinked. “What? I’m not…I don’t…”

 _“Yes you are, and yes you do. He’s definitely your slave, at least in_ certain _matters.”_

She coughed and cleared her throat. “I just…I wanted to ask if you might be free tonight—”

 _“Yes. I will watch Tommen so you can take the fast train to Bang City. I’d say_ do me proud _, but I’m not the Lannister you’ll be doing.”_

“Tyrion!” She used her Jaime-don’t-be-an-idiot tone automatically.

_“Last I checked, that is my name. So glad you remember. Should I plan on staying over, or will you tire Jaime out in a matter of hours?”_

“I…I…” Brienne sucked in a deep breath and reminded herself not to question. “If you could stay over, that would be nice.”

_“Excellent. He thinks your bed’s too small, but I can’t imagine he’d care right now.”_

Tyrion hung up. Brienne was left open-mouthed and wide-eyed with her phone still held next to her ear. She had to clean up her flat, probably change her sheets since they were bound to be stale. She should shower, too, and find something to wear. Jaime liked her in blue. She almost laughed at how nervous and excited she was to attend a cat show.

 


	4. In Which There is a Cat Show, a Supernova, and a Mystery Solved

 

Jaime felt like he was alone in a dinghy in a sea of cats. Even the recirculated air of the convention center was full of floating hairs. He reached up to scrape a clump off his lip. Wherever there wasn’t a table with cats on it, there were vendor booths selling cat sweaters, cat collars, cat treats, everything cat. And there were tables and tables of cat cages with prize show cats preening inside. Cat owners stood next to every cage, most of whom looked disturbingly like their cats.

He turned to gape in a different direction and spotted a nasty-looking skinny cat with a coat sort of like a leopard and strangely long eyelashes. Its owner was a very tan woman wearing a leopard-print jumpsuit. She, too, had strangely long eyelashes. Both cat and woman looked at him and cocked their heads in identical ways. Jaime shuddered and turned away.

Where was Brienne anyway? She was four minutes late. He texted her again, just to make sure she’d found parking. He looked above the crowd to see if could spot her, but all he saw was Tommen’s hand manically waving back and forth, signaling that he had returned from whatever event that had just ended.

As Jaime approached Ser Pounce’s assigned show table, Tommen’s grumble filtered through the various beastly mewlings and human murmurs. Something about the cage being set symmetrically.

“No, no, it must be perfect, and there are three minutes until the judges see this row!” Tommen’s wail sounded eerily similar to one of the girls’ typical outpourings. Was it contagious? Would sweet little Tommen turn into a pubescent monster, too? He buried the terrifying thought.

Tommen’s Four-H leader whipped out a tape measure and shimmied the cage a few millimeters to one side, wiping her brow with the back of her sleeve. The first time Jaime had met Walda Frey, he thought her a motherly type with rosy round cheeks and a calming sort of voice. He would never have guessed how intense she was about cat competitions, borderline insane even, and Ser Pounce was apparently her ticket to glory that year. She babied the entitled creature almost as much as Tommen did.

“The judges are coming! Quick, the shine spray!” Walda grabbed a bottle from Tommen and spritzed Ser Pounce’s coat until it shone like a Man of the Watch’s shoes.

Jaime looked down the row of tables to spot a group of three people wearing yellow satin sashes that said _Judge_ in a purple typeface made of paw shapes. There was tallish man with weird blue-tinted lips and striped pants, an elderly woman in a bellowing kaftan who looked Astaporian or something, and another woman about Jaime’s age with long red hair of a shade not found in nature, and garb entirely inappropriate for an event where children were present.

Jaime’s eyes bugged out of his head, and not in the good way like when Brienne wore his blue shirt. The redheaded judge wore a matching red velvet jumpsuit, with a neckline so low it exposed her skin almost to her navel. The yellow sash cut across the expanse as if it tried to censor the display.

Jaime tried to decide what to do. Was he supposed to shield his nine-year-old male ward from such blatant cleavage, or would that inadvertently teach Tommen some kind of newfangled misogyny? He thought about having Walda Frey show Ser Pounce, but Tommen would never go for that. This show was some kind of regional thing. But that woman…

Jaime’s gaze flickered above the judges’ heads to see a blonde mop floating towards him. The vice grip in his chest loosened, and he could breathe the air that was now scented by the red woman’s patchouli-infused approach.

Everything would be all right somehow. Brienne was there.

He watched her step around the judges, his eyes bugging out for the second time, this one in the good way. She looked spectacular, and he wasn’t convinced it was because he hadn’t seen her in three whole days/half an eternity. Her hair was smooth, her mile-long legs displayed in dark jeans. And she’d cut down that dress she’d worn to Olenna Tyrell’s party the year before, making it into a blouse with thin straps, her shoulders and collarbone exposed. He loved that dress. He’d loved ripping it off her best of all.

It was completely unlike her to wear it in public.

She caught him on his third scan of her body, her skin flushing instantly. She usually ducked her head and blinked rapidly, or looked away as if a giant had appeared somewhere behind him, but this time, he watched her swallow and take a quick, sharp breath, and stand just a little taller. Her lips formed a slow smile that favored one side, not quite shy and not quite forward. He’d almost call it bashfully seductive. It was new. It was delicious. He thought she might even have missed him as much as he missed her.

“Why are you smiling so weird, Uncle Jaime?” Tommen peered up at him with Ser Pounce’s back held against his chest like an infant about to vomit. “You look like a shark.”

Jaime laughed, ruffling the boy’s hair as Brienne finally came to a stop in front of them. He spoke to Tommen but locked eyes with her. “Well, I feel a bit like a shark at the moment. It’s an uncle thing.”

Tommen glanced nervously at the judges just two tables away now and rearranged Ser Pounce. “Thank you for coming to see Ser Pounce’s majesty, Brienne. He’s probably going to place ninth, I think, which is very good, and also, Briann the Lizard is gaining weight and is very happy because Myrcy’s school isn’t stupid and decided to let me keep him.”

“Tommen…” Jaime felt his grin slip a little.

“Sorry. I am grateful they are not unintelligent and made the right decision.” Tommen nodded in satisfaction.

Jaime sighed.

Brienne bent to stroke Ser Pounce’s fur just once. “I wouldn’t miss his victory for the world.”

“That was the wrong direction!” Walda Frey nearly shouted, pointing to a disturbance in the pattern of Ser Pounce’s fur because of Brienne’s fingers.

By the time Brienne drew a breath to apologize, as Jaime knew she would, Walda had pulled Tommen closer and had drawn out a black lacquered brush from nowhere, perfecting the fur once more.

Jaime stepped closer into the circle of Brienne’s body heat. He liked to think her blush could migrate and warm him on a cold day, but that was probably because he was usually wrapped around her in some way. “So, later—”

Her flush grew brighter, but the judges unfortunately chose that moment to approach Tommen’s table. The elderly woman and blue-lipped man focused very intently on Ser Pounce as Tommen held him out, the poor creature’s body stretched like a furry sausage. There were several more unnatural positions displayed in quick succession, like cat yoga. Jaime almost wanted to buy Ser Pounce his own salmon filet just for putting up with the bizarre enterprise.

The male pirate judge wrote on his clipboard and proclaimed Ser Pounce to have a “9.6” whatever that meant. The elderly woman judge gave the cat a 9.1. The red woman judge seemed to take a moment longer to decide, tapping long fingernails against her clipboard.

Finally, she declared in a slithery accent. “9.5.”

Tommen’s face lit up. Walda Frey shrieked. “Fourth! That’s fourth! And only ten more cats to judge, and everyone knows the Meereenese breeds are completely sub-par!”

“Hey!” yelled someone who almost certainly owned a Meereenese breed.

A few tables away, Jaime recognized snotty little Tyene Sand from Tommen’s Four-H club, bawling in the circle of her mother’s arms. “Stupid Ser Quentyn of Sunspear with your stupid twelfth place! Stupid, bad pussy!”

Then Jaime noticed that the red woman judge was looking at _him_ , judging him with bedroom eyes and crimson-painted lips that were far too thin and not at all innocent. “A handsome lion, strong and proud, I think. Virile, too.”

Jaime was used to it, the unwanted attention that always made Brienne uncomfortable, and he’d had quite enough of that. “I don’t know. I see a cheap kitty that’s trying too hard and is rather obviously, and unattractively, in heat.”

The red woman’s smirk turned into a grimace. “You know nothing about cats.” She slithered away with stiff shoulders and a haughty tilt of the chin.

He chuckled at the idiocy and reached out for Brienne to tangle his fingers with hers, not sure whether the gesture of reassurance was for himself or for her. But it was his right hand, or his lack of a right hand. The stump brushed Brienne’s wrist. After five years, he still forgot sometimes.

“Sorry,” he murmured, both for the red woman’s attempted pickup and for the stump.

Brienne’s fingers wrapped around his mangled flesh. “It’s fine.”

He stared at her lovely blue eyes. Whenever he got attention, she’d do the same thing she did when embarrassed, the good ol’ duck and blink, and she’d say it was _fine_ in a tone that betrayed how much she hated it. That was absent, and no duck and no blink.

He leaned closer, stared harder. “Are you all right?”

She swallowed, began to duck, stopped herself and nodded instead. “Yes, I’m…good. Quite all right, Jaime.”

He blinked. She sounded confident. The way her lips formed his name made his muscles flex of their own volition. He didn’t know what was going through her head, but it didn’t seem objectionable in any way. She looked straight at him, and she let herself look. She never did that for more than a few seconds outside of the bedroom, though he’d caught her enough to know that she _liked_ looking. That was nothing. Lots of people liked looking at him, but they were people like that awful red woman who didn’t matter. _She_ mattered.

He grinned. “If you get to stare at me in public, then I get to stare at you.”

She blushed harder, started to tilt her forehead down.

“No ducking,” he warned with a smug shake of the head. “No blinking.”

Her lips tightened together in the way they did when she was exasperated with him.

“So later…” he pressed, wondering how much longer he’d be able to remain under the harsh fluorescent lights without giving away the burgeoning situation in his trousers.

She swallowed. “Later…Tyrion is going to come to your house and stay with Myrcy and Tommen.” Her voice was very quiet.

He swallowed. Thickly. “All night?”

She tightened her grip on his stump, and he didn’t think she knew she was doing it. “All night. I—I asked him to. I cleaned my flat.”

Her own flat, not a hotel. He’d only stayed at her flat a handful of times. It was small but tidy and comfortable except for a bed too small for both their large bodies. He’d never cared about that less.

He didn’t take his eyes off Brienne. “Tommen, get packed, okay?”

Tommen’s sharp breath was audible. “But Uncle Jaime, they have to finish judging, and award the ribbons, and take photographs of the top ten cats for Westeros Fancy Feline, and…”

Jaime groaned. It had been a hellsishly long three days, but the thought of remaining there for even a few hours seemed far, far worse. Tyrion had better be camping on his porch when they got home.

* * *

 

Margaery Tyrell rubbed her eyes with her palms. Grandmother would slap her hands away if she were at home, since dragging caused crow’s feet. But she’d stared at the murder board so long she could barely see anymore. It was a thing of beauty, a murder _wall_ really as it took up an entire side of Myrcy’s room. Photos of every single person who attended, worked at, or volunteered in their school had been pinned there, with notes about alibis and motives beneath them, and red strings wound around pins to connect all the leads. There were empty ink cartridges all around from printing the photos off MyFace.

There were only ten photos left now. They were making progress. They _would_ catch the hater. _She_ would catch the hater and bring her/him to hot Uncle Jaime in chains and a ball gag, and toss her/him at hot Uncle Jaime’s feet. She would receive praise for her dedication and ingenuity. He would be in her debt for saving the delicate constitution of his one true love, and maybe, just _maybe_ he would kiss her once on the lips, a sweet peck of a reward because of reasons.

She shook herself as if electrocuted. No, of course he wouldn’t kiss her. That would be a betrayal of all the things. But he was _so_ hot. Despite all their hard work, she still had to get proof that hot Uncle Jaime and magical unicorn Brienne were still _hot_ for each other, too, and then find the right way to show Myrcy and Sansa so they wouldn’t blame Tommen for the recent lack of PDA. She’d work on that, soon.

“We need more tape,” Myrcy muttered, rubbing her bleary eyes and shaking her foot.

Sansa was asleep on the floor. Poor thing had stayed up almost the whole weekend to help with the investigation and to finish the acapella flash mob song with Willas via Hype, because she was grounded with Myrcy. Sansa’d fallen asleep in school that day, but the song was done, and while Marg did not think it was exactly _good_ , it was going to be perfect for her…their purposes.

Public declaration of love forevah, obvs.

So, back to tape. “I’ll get some.”

“Schwev…” Myrcy mumbled, swaying slightly since she’d been awake almost as long as Sansa.

Margaery had slept like a baby, despite her eyeball situation. She’d had _two_ Jagerbombs with Gendry in the hopes that he’d want to _do stuff_ more than tongue fencing. She was only still with him to _break_ him dammit! He was insistent that he love her before he let his lust snake loose, which was totes stupid beyond belief, but now it was a challenge she couldn’t resist. Who _didn’t_ love her? No one, that’s who. Everyone loved her. She was amazing. So how could dumbass _Gendry_ not be sure that he loved her? Moron.

She hopped down hot Uncle Jaime’s stairs and glanced around, folding her arms and tapping her fingers like a stern secretary pondering the whereabouts of tape. Hot Uncle Jaime’s office! Of course. It was a wreck from Ser Pounce’s incarceration, supplies dumped on the floor and books hanging off the shelves.

A car door slammed out by the curb, then another. She guessed everyone was coming back from Tommen’s cat show. Such a weird little kid, but cute. Was that a roll of tape under the desk? She ducked down to reach but couldn’t quite manage.

She heard footsteps clomp on the porch, and the front door swing open. Tommen chattered about how well Ser Pounce had done, and hot Uncle Jaime’s drunken short brother was there, too. She’d recognize his cocky voice anywhere. Hot Uncle Jaime said something too low to hear. She crawled completely under the desk, almost reaching the tape.

Brienne was there, just outside the office. Margaery knew the sound of her tall unicorn steps.

Tyrion Lannister loudly commented, “You two have a great night. Hah, of course you will. Someday, when I’m old and grey and only have half my liver left, I’ll tell my grandchildren that this was the night a tall, awkward, b—”

“Tyrion!” hot Uncle Jaime shouted.

“Yes, yes. Come along, Tommen. I’m going to cook, and it will be terrible, and then we’ll order pizza to make up for it.”

Marg listened to two sets of steps fade away. Silence. She found the tape and curled her fingers around it, intending to stand and explain why she’d been in hot Uncle Jaime’s office.

But he spoke first. “Myrcy? You up there?”

“Yesh! I mean, yes. So terred…” Myrcy’s reply was a blob of nothing.

“Good night, then! See you two tomorrow.”

Marg’s eyes went wide. This could be it! Hot Uncle Jaime and Brienne weren’t even staying at the house! She needed to sneak out and follow them, get some photos or audio…

Hot Uncle Jaime spoke again, this time so low Marg had to strain to hear. “I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait.”

Brienne finally whispered back, “We’re not alone.”

“We’re never alone. Myrcy’s upstairs. Tommen’s in the back. Does it really matter that much?” Hot Uncle Jaime sounded desperate.

“I don’t know—” Brienne’s hesitation wasn’t even that strong.

A pause, and then, “Do you want me to convince you? It wouldn’t take long. Just my fingers, here, and here, and my lips…here.”

Was that a moan? Like, an actual _moan_!?! Marg curled into a tight ball under the desk and didn’t even dare to breathe. She couldn’t interrupt _this_. It was all the things.

“It’s been a week, Brienne,” hot Uncle Jaime whispered, but his words were muffled. Like his lips were pressed against Brienne’s natural-and-not-sun-damaged freckly porcelain skin. “A whole week. Torture.”

Breaths, and fabric moving around, and Brienne giving in. “The desk. Now.”

The door moved. It closed. The lock snapped. Margaery felt a shriek build up inside her lungs. She was going to burst! She was going to ruin everything! Her fingers shook around the roll of tape in her hand…tape!

She tore off a long piece as silently as she could and stretched it diagonally over her mouth. Then another, on the other side. Nope, more…so much more tape.

She heard shuffling and moaning, and then legs came into view, standing side by side next to the desk, hot Uncle Jaime’s in old-man khakis, and Brienne’s in cute dark jeans Margaery had never seen on her before. They were tight around her calves.

Heavy breathing filled the office. There was a sucking noise. Brienne’s left leg lifted and wrapped around hot Uncle Jaime’s hips, though Marg couldn’t see it because they were so tall. She just imagined how Brienne’s thigh would grip his hipbone and her calf would rest right above his—

Oh gods, he lifted her! Just lifted her right up in the air with one hand and a stump and the superhero power of lust! Brienne’s one remaining leg in view disappeared, and then Margaery could see her ankles cross under Jaime’s fine, fine ass. She’d wish the desk had a glass top, but then _they_ would see _her_. Maybe one of those secret one-way mirrors? Maybe she should offer to replace hot Uncle Jaime’s herself.

“Jaime, your back!” Brienne reprimanded, but her words were muffled.

“I told you, my back is fine.” He moved a few steps, turning so his legs faced the space where Marg was hiding. She could see his legs from mid-thigh down, and she cursed his old-man khakis with swears that would make even her grandmother blush. If only she could see higher. Marg would just _kill_ to see what hot Uncle Jaime had going on in that region. “We’re not even doing that thing we were doing when I threw it out.”

Margaery sucked in a breath of glee, but the tape just got trapped between her lips. She knew it! She _knew_ they were doing some kinky sex thing when he got injured! Ha.

Brienne seemed to be stroking various types of things. “Good. We can’t do that thing until I know it won’t hurt you again.”

“There are other things.”

Oh gods, they were hardcore snogging! They had to be! There was no talking, just skin sounds and wet mouth sounds, and breathing sounds, and whatever had stayed on the desk after Ser Pounce’s freak out clattered to the floor. 

The desk rattled. Brienne must be sitting on it now, right there above her head. Marg covered her taped mouth with one hand, then decided to add more tape. Brienne was mumbling Jaime’s name over and over in this breathy whisper that Marg never would have thought could come from Brienne’s deep voice. And the scrape of fingers against denim. _That_ sound Margaery knew well. The desk rattled again. Zippers were pulled. _Pulled_!

She caught sight of Brienne’s legs hanging off the desk, just for a moment, just until they wrapped back around Jaime. Weird move. Margaery tried to picture the part she couldn’t see…oh. _Oh!_

The denim was off. Well, not _all_ the way off, but _enough_ off, bunched around one knee and kicked off the other leg. Just _hanging_ there. The old man khakis sagged. Oh no! It would be over in a moment, and she’d have no proof of their fiery supernova of chemistry, and she wouldn’t even have _seen_ anything good!

She listened so intently she swore she could hear her heart beating loudly enough to betray her presence. She added more tape and used her other hand to press against her vocal chords. If they couldn’t move, she couldn’t squee.

It was so quiet…was it over? No, there were still little sighs and hints of snogging. Maybe deep snogging. Maybe Hot Uncle Jaime had Brienne pinned to the desk with his hot lickable abs pressed to her stomach _._ He made a noise that gave Margaery a pretty urgent lady boner. How was Brienne not contributing a soundtrack of freaky exclamations by then?

Margaery was confused. She was no virgin. She’d _done_ stuff, hello. But she didn’t understand what they were doing on that desk right above her head. She was just a bit disappointed that Hot Uncle Jaime might not have too many…skillz.

She listened, she heard a whisper and couldn’t make it out, she carefully pulled out her phone and hid the screen so the light wouldn’t show, and she hit record. It wasn’t like there’d be video or anything. Just in case she missed something important. As _proof_.

Another whisper, in _his_ voice. Why were they whispering? They didn’t know anyone was around.

Movement from something, a tiny little moan so quiet it almost didn’t exist.

Seven hells full of seven Strangers! _Movement_! The desk rattled violently, just once, sharp and instant. Margaery almost banged her head in surprise. Brienne made some kind of noise, some kind of _moan_. Not even a moan, but better than a moan, but Margaery didn’t know what was better than a moan!

She’d thought they were done, and they hadn’t even started. There was no mistaking it then, no more confusion. Desk rattling, noises, movement…hot Uncle Jaime’s thighs smacked into the edge of the desk a whole fricking bunch of times. Oh gods, this was so hot Margaery was actually embarrassed. She was _never_ embarrassed!

But she didn’t know about things like this. She was willing to admit it. It cut her deep, to realize her existence as the _adult_ one was a lie. _Everything_ was a lie. She had _no_ experience. She knew _nothing_.

The desk squeaked. Friction, she thought. Sweat. Where was Brienne’s blouse? She hadn’t seen it flutter to the floor in a dramatic slow motion way like it totally should have. The back of Margaery’s head hit the side of the desk as it jolted. She leaned forward to avoid injury and any chance she’d be revealed.

They were saying things, and snogging. She heard the words drowned by mouths and lips fusing together. The desk shook. Margaery shook. She was pretty certain Brienne shook. For a _long_ time, coupled with sweat squeaks and moans and whispers, and the hot Uncle Jaime just _groaned_ and the desk _groaned_ and she knew she’d probably die if it collapsed over her head with two giant sexy beasts on top. Hmm, it might be _the_ way to go.

But that _groan_! Oh gods, it was hot, sharp like something had _happened_ , like maybe Brienne pulled his hair, or bit him, or maybe he bit _her_ and was overcome with the taste of her freckled skin. And then Brienne _groaned_. Margaery covered her ears. She didn’t know why. She’d _always_ wanted to hear this. Even to see it. She was sort of a perv, after all. But it was just too private. She shouldn’t be there.

She waited, and waited. She uncovered one ear. Quiet and calm, no moving, no moaning. She let her other hand fall. Brienne’s legs were no longer around hot Uncle Jaime, but slack over the side of the desk. One of Brienne’s shoes hung off her foot and then dropped to the carpet.

She heard them taking deep breaths, like Sansa always did when she had to speak in class. Hot Uncle Jaime still sounded like he was kissing stuff every few seconds, between maybe hyperventilating. Brienne whispered so softly Margaery wondered if she imagined it, “Come here.”

Margaery didn’t know where hot Uncle Jaime could have been, since he appeared to still be mostly on top of Brienne, on top of the desk. She watched Jaime’s legs push up to be higher and closer to Brienne. Which meant he’d been lower, but not _lower_ lower. Like, tit lower. So he climbed _higher_ and came there. Margaery wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t because treachery and tape.

Snogging, definitely snogging, but like slow snogging with slow tongue. Lazy tongue. That was it, Margaery _had_ to see _something_. She held her phone in one hand, just up to the camera lens, and pulled her sleeve up to cover the entire screen so no light would show. She slowly, gingerly held the phone as far from their legs as she could and raised it so the lens would be _just_ above the desk’s edge, _just_ enough to maybe capture _something_. She held it there until Brienne moved one leg, lifting it again over Jaime’s hip, and she whispered something to Jaime, and Margaery wished she’d never hopped downstairs, because fuck tape.

Tears streamed down Margaery’s cheeks. She brought the phone down and stopped the recording She should delete it. She _would_ delete it. Okay, she’d watch it once, _then_ delete it. Okay, she’d watch it five times and share it with Myrcy and Sansa five times, _then_ she’d delete it for sure.

It was _proof_.

She waited and covered her ears and smiled to herself beneath the tape. She’d have to get a facial to prevent tape aging. That totally had to be a thing. She waited more, a long while.

They finally got up. The pants were pulled up, and she saw _nothing_ of what hot Uncle Jaime had to offer, though she no longer wondered about that so much. Brienne fumbled for her shoe with her toes. There was snogging. Their legs were still tangled up even though they stood. Right in front of the desk where she could see, hot Uncle Jaime twisted and pushed special cinnamon roll Brienne against the bookcase. Margaery choked as she watched Brienne’s leg slide up and wrap around that fine, fine khaki-covered ass. He said stuff she couldn’t hear, and there were _tongue_ sounds.

Soon, Brienne lowered her leg and they moved out of sight. Margaery heard the door open as they left really quietly, though she was sure Tyrion had known they were still there. She waited. She thought it was safe to check her recording, in case it wasn’t really good or something. She hadn’t gotten much, but there was a shaky side view of Brienne on the desk with Jaime on top of her, blocking all the good bits with arms and clothing. It was enough though. It was _proof_. No doubt. They were all wrapped up together with hands on necks and faces and in hair, and lips close together, and they were just _staring_. Margaery felt weird looking at it. Like she should maybe go to jail for some crime against OTP-ing. But it was just…so…beautiful! Her mascara was _really_ failing hardcore.

She waited a minute more, until the front door closed and she heard a car engine start. She crept out from under the desk, her legs like gelatin from being wrapped up so tightly. She felt wobbly and like she had some massive secret to protect as she peeked out of the door, seeing no one, and crept up the stairs almost on all fours. She made it to Myrcy’s room, closed herself inside, and stood there waiting to share _everything_.

Myrcy was staring at the murder board with a look of shock on her face. Sansa held a photo from the board, her normally pale and perfect features twisted into a terrible grimace. Margaery didn’t even care.

Myrcy noticed her first. She shrieked.

“Oh my gods oh my gods, Marg! How did you get kidnapped in like, twenty minutes?!?”

Sansa had spun around on Myrcy’s first word, screamed and let the photo fall from her fingers. “Are you okay? You can’t be okay? What happened? Oh gods what’s happening?!?”

Margaery tried to explain. “Aht nukkel jimmie en breen toally id it oo gize!”

“What?!?” her friends shouted at the same time.

Oh. The tape. Margaery ripped it off in one brutal yank, because facial. “Hot Uncle Jaime and Brienne totally did it you guys! Down in the office, like, _right_ above my head! Oh my gods!”

“What?!?!” they screamed.

“I _know_!!! It was…it was…” Margaery cried for real this time, full on.

She held up her phone and played the recording for her friends. Myrcy covered her eyes immediately, but she peeked out between her fingers so it totally didn’t count. Margaery had caught the part where Brienne said the three-worded _thing_ that was _all_ the things, and then hot Uncle Jaime looked like he was going to maybe find a warlord to fight so he could take the land and build a pyramid with a statue of Brienne on top and proclaim it the land of his _woman._

Margaery thought she might not be able to stay fake in love with hot Uncle Jaime anymore. Some things you just couldn’t pretend, and he was totally, totally taken. Like _totally_ taken forevs. She’d wonder/hope that hot Uncle Jaime might have a nephew or a cousin or something, but that would be Joffrey or Lancel and _nobody_ wanted either of them, a psychopath and a super skinny white boy dirty hippie guru.

There was only one hot Uncle Jaime.

Why was she still sort of crying? Then she remembered, tears of lust witness and overdosed OTPing.

The recording ended. “See,” she said and sniffed, “proof. I knew last week they were fine, but I was afraid you would think they were hiding, and they _are_ hiding, but I think it’s because of Tommen, but not in a bad way, you know?”

Myrcy was totally silent for a while and then her face lit up. “Oh my gods, oh! Oh you guys! Oh my gods! They’re _fine_!”

“They’re way, way more than fine, you guys!” Sansa wailed.

Myrcy started weeping almost as hard as Marg. “You know what? We’re totally getting tall awkward babies! Maybe soon! That was…so wrong to watch, but like, _so so amazing cakes_.”

“Amazing ice cream pie brownie cakes with whipped cream and sprinkles,” Sansa repeated.

“So see? We just have to convince them that Tommen doesn’t give a furry cat’s ass about the PDAs. He should see how much they love each other and want to grow up to be just like hot Uncle Jaime!” Marg wiped her slimy face with the backs of her hands. Manicure, too.

“Totally! I see everything clearly now!” Myrcy beamed through her tears. “So what can we do?”

Marg spoke with total conviction. “We have to convince _them_ that it’s okay to go public! We have to stop stalking them so they feel comfortable. We have to disband the street team. It’s going to be brutal and it will hurt us a lot, but we have to. For _them_. And then we have to get them in a public place to break the public ice, and then _everyone_ will see how they’re so in love it hurts actual beating hearts to see, and that _everyone_ will be _so_ jealous of them forever that they can go on and just like _live_ and stuff.”

Myrcy looked shocked, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open. “But, but…we’ll have _nothing_!”

“No, Myrcy,” Marg’s voice was very quiet. “We’ll have lots of the things. We’ll have our OTP in Brienne’s books. We’ll have our real OTP. Nothing can take that away. And we’ll have each other, and we can’t even know what other stuff we’ll have because we’re so great.”

Sansa bawled. Myrcy wept. Marg went on.

“So you see? We need publicness. And guess what’s happening in like, a _week_ that just happens to include an OTP love song Sansa totes wrote with Willas, just for _them_?”

“Oh my gods, the acapella flash mob!” Sansa shrieked.

“Exactly! We don’t have to make it like a big tribute with the song that nobody will understand but us and our people! We need to get _them_ there, and create like, some scenario, a _moment_ , where they meet in the middle of the crowd, and then they’ll hear the song and see all the happiness around them, and they’ll say, _fuck it world our love is pure and for everyone to be jealous of_ , and then they’ll snog and make everyone horny, because hot Uncle Jaime is the _man_.”

“Oh gods, you guys! What if…what if…” Sansa wailed and flapped her arms up and down.

Myrcy jumped onto her bed. “What if he _proposes_! Oh my gods!”

Marg tried really hard to stop her stupid tears. She was the _adult_ one, even if she’d apparently never had good sex and didn’t really know what that was or anything. “It might just be possible.” She nodded sagely. “We have to be clever this time, not so obvious. We have to be like my grandmother, you guys.”

“We _do_. This is going to be amazing!” Myrcy jumped.

“We need code names!” Sansa offered, with a wail. “’Cause they can’t know who we’re talking about and stuff.”

Marg nodded. “Yes. Hmm…Brienne has to be Cinnamon. Because precious cinnamon roll of wonder and beauty. And super mad shag skills, wow.”

Myrcy stopped jumping. “I know Uncle Jaime’s…it has to be something really common, that we can text and write notes and stuff, and call about without anyone knowing. It’s what you said, Marg, about the moment and the man. So _Man of the Moment_. M-o-m. Mom.”

Marg grinned as widely as her tape-damaged mouth would let her. “It’s so stupid it’s perfect!”

“I know!” Myrcy yelled.

Sansa began to weep again, and flap her arms, and she bent to pick up the fallen photo from before. Myrcy’s face instantly transformed. She started crying again.

Marg focused intently.

“We have a job to do,” Myrcy said quietly but determinedly. “While you were downstairs being gross but awesome, we figured something out. We think it’s because our vision got so blurry that we entered a heightened state of awareness.”

“I’m going to have to try that,” Marg said. “Go on.”

Myrcy cleared her throat of snot. “We have to stop the hater. She posted a new blog, same old crap. But Marg…”

Myrcy turned to look at Sansa for some reason, her expression almost sorry. It was strange.

“Just tell me, gods!” Marg insisted.

Sansa sniffed. “Well, we had ten suspects left, everyone who didn’t have an alibi for when we were at school with the lizard. We left them up even though we didn’t think most of them were possible, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah, I _know_!”

“Well,” Sansa sputtered. “We figured it out. Well, Myrcy figured it out. Because the hater has to know us, like for real. We thought the hater wanted to hurt Brienne, but because she goes to our own school, Myrcy wondered if the hater really just wants to hurt _us_ because we love Brienne. So…”

Sansa held up one of the last photos. Marg gasped. She felt like an idiot, and she _hated_ feeling like an idiot. It was so obvious, _should_ have been obvious the whole time. They’d known about the hater and her motive the _whole time_. She’d told them. They hadn’t listed because she was stupid and little and didn’t matter. She annoyed the shit out of Sansa and her delicate sensibilities.

Marg took the photo from Sansa and moved to the murder board. She ripped all the other photos off, all the red strings, and she pinned the one photo in the center.

Myrcy cleared her throat and sniffed. “We can’t destroy her, Marg. We can’t kill her ded.”

“Oh gods,” Marg whispered. “I know.”

She felt despair drown all her former horniness and elation. All the _things_. But then, a glimmer of hope, like a light in the darkness, like a flaming sword of truth, beauty, and sex skills.

“I know why, you guys. I know how to fix this.”

Her friends stared at her with burgeoning hope. She reached out her hands and they each took one. They would have each other after this, and they would all be fine, and someday…someday, she would get a better recording of hot Uncle Jaime getting in on with majestic Cinnamon Roll Brienne with her mad skills, once she got over her embarrassment/weirdness.

The only photo left on the murder board was of Sansa’s own sister, the sophomore tomboy annoying sibling plague, Arya Stark.

And Marg knew exactly _why_.

 


	5. In Which There is a Harridan, a Trap, and a Gift-Wrapped Box

 

Jaime woke up tangled in white sheets that had been crisp and neat the night before. He stared at Brienne’s ceiling and the beams of light dancing there, filtering through the open window. She wanted him to get up. She only left the window open when she was tired of being awake alone, and she usually only felt like _that_ when he’d been particularly…amorous.

She was never clingy, never demanded attention, but there was something different about her since the cat show the day before. She seemed…happy. Not that she hadn’t seemed happy _before_ , this was just different. She glowed. She was glorious. She hadn’t even tried to convince him to turn the lights off, not once. 

He stretched out, his muscles aching in a way he really, really liked. If he rolled to the edge of her side of the bed, he could just see through the door into the kitchen. Her flat was far too small. She deserved better.

She stood in front of the stove with a frying pan in her hand. She wore his shirt. _Only_ his shirt, and that blue pair of panties he loved. She was so tall the back didn’t really cover much when she moved even a little. This was new. She’d never walked around so uncovered. He sat up. So did other things.

He watched her stare at the frying pan, and she grimaced at its contents for a moment before moving to the rubbish bin and dumping the pan inside. She stared at the mess. She laughed to herself and set the pan on the stove, reaching for a box of cereal and some bowls.

Brienne did not cook. She hated cooking. He’d seen the lump of dough in the pan and recognized a failed pancake or three, and the idea of her trying to cook him a hot breakfast was so ridiculously domestic and so unlike her that he was two seconds away from marching stark naked into the kitchen and making her neighbor call the police on them again. At least it wouldn’t be the middle of the night this time. And maybe that nosey neighbor had learned her lesson.

His phone dinged. He had no desire to check it, and he only had an hour or so before he had to get to work. There were other things to do in that hour. But it could be Tommen, or Tyrion, or Myrcy. He fumbled for the phone on the nightstand and glanced at the screen. It was a text from Margaery Tyrell. _H8tr blog back up. We know who. We kill ded. U go sex up lady and not let her see._

This was progress. Margaery hadn’t suggested joining them in the bedroom or added an inappropriate emoji to her text. But the text caused Jaime’s prior grin to fade. It was entirely possible that Brienne could learn of the horrible things said about her at any moment. She seemed to be in such a good, confident mood, and he refused to let anything cause her to be unhappy. Clearly, a lawyer wasn’t enough to counter this, and no matter what the girls thought, they couldn’t stop the entire internet from publishing things that made his blood boil. He remembered his lawyer’s advice to hire a publicist. It seemed ridiculous for a non-celebrity, but he might not have another choice.

He opened his contact list to find the person who would know what to do and would understand. Someone who respected Brienne, and someone who had already helped him out once. She was listed under _Highgarden Harridan_. If she didn’t reply to his text, he’d have to call later from the office. The message sent, Jaime set the phone aside and stared out the door again. Brienne was perched on a too-small stool in front of the island, a bowl of cereal in front of her and those blue panties on full display. He decided that marching stark naked into the kitchen was a fantastic idea.

* * *

 

“I never expected to receive an emergency lunch invitation from a _Lannister_ , dear boy.”

The ancient but startlingly well-preserved old woman peered at him from across the small table with sharp eyes and tiny smirk. He could see where Margaery got, well, everything.

He took a deep breath. “I’m barely a Lannister anymore, but it’s still just as mortifying to ask for help.”

Olenna scoffed. “You’re more Lannister than most despite what you might want to be. There isn’t one of you lot who values family more than you, apart from your horrible father of course, but he’s always been more interested in legacy than actual people.”

“That may be, but I’m not here to discuss Lannisters.” Jaime ran his fingers through his hair in a rare show of nerves.

“Oh, I think you are.” Olenna examined his face as if she could see beneath the skin. “Or at least a certain person you’d very much like to _be_ a Lannister.”

“What?” He was sure he was being baited, but there was no point in speaking with a Tyrell if you weren’t prepared to be trapped into _something_.

“Come now, Jaime boy, tell me you aren’t here to beg advice on how to wed your frighteningly tall but quite singular lady friend without your father raining hells down on you.” Olenna smirked..

Jaime was stunned. Of course that wasn’t why he was there, but really…if he were to stop burying the fancies he imagined in the middle of the night when he stared at Brienne’s peaceful sleeping face, the situation Olenna suggested wasn’t wrong. Tywin would, as Myrcy so often put it, _totally freak out_ at the idea of Brienne being the wife of Tywin’s heir. He might have been cut off once he’d left the family business in favor of independence, but he knew that Tywin would never leave his empire to Tyrion, or even worse, Joffrey. It was Jaime or cousin Lancel, and everyone hated Lancel. Jaime began to grin.

The only reason he hadn’t truly considered a proposal was because he didn’t think Brienne would accept, and he couldn’t stand to set himself up for such a huge disappointment. Oh, he knew she loved him, that was clear even though she was still so hesitant about admitting it. He knew it was her instinct to protect herself. He only wished she would someday learn that she didn’t need to protect herself from _him_.

Maybe that was the key. Maybe he should propose _without_ expecting her to accept, just so she would know how deadly serious he was about her and forming a future with her. Maybe she would see that she could trust him completely, even if she didn’t want to get married. Maybe she would want to move in, but he’d really have to get a bigger place for that. The children were _everywhere_ in his current house, and he had a gut feeling that Myrcy and her terrifying friends would still be around quite a lot despite living on the university campus in a few months.

He looked up from his plate. Olenna was still staring at him, even though he had no idea how long he’d been lost inside his head.

“I take it you’ve made a plan then?” she drawled.

He nodded, his smile widening. “I need to buy a bigger house.”

“Obviously. My, I’m getting even more efficient in my influence as I age. How marvelous.” Olenna took a sip of some outrageously expensive white wine as her eyes glinted. “I’d hate to think I was slipping.”

 _Hate_. Jaime set aside his new plan and recalled why he was really there. “Your advice is remarkably effective even though you didn’t really say anything, but I’m afraid you’ve guessed wrong.”

“Really? No, I think not. I merely uncovered what your subconscious desired, but I’m willing to listen to other matters.”

Jaime chuckled, but it quickly turned into a frown as he thought about his request. “I think I need a publicist, and I was hoping you might know of someone trustworthy.”

“Is your Lannister baggage getting the better of you in the media again?” Olenna cut a delicate bit of salmon and nibbled on it.

“Not yet, but it’s a complicated…thing.” He explained about Fumblr and the hate blog, and about protecting Brienne from such awful attacks.

Olenna remained still and silent, clearly considering the information. She folded her hands in front of her plate in a prim pyramid. “Jaime boy, that girl does not require your protection. Support is more important than attempting to impose ignorance, no matter how noble the motive. She must learn to accept derision and set it aside, simply part of her chosen work.”

Jaime clenched his fingers into a fist. “You can’t imagine how much derision she’s faced. This isn’t fair, it’s not acceptable. It’s libel.”

“Calm yourself, boy,” Olenna chided. “I don’t pretend to understand this absurd _social media_ phenomenon, but what from I do know, you are becoming obsessed with stifling the jealousy of a teenager. Public outrage over an actual person is always because that person is either a controversial politician or a figure inspiring jealousy. Brienne is certainly no politician, and indeed she is quite accomplished and well loved. I’m painfully aware because of my excitable and devoted granddaughter that Brienne has fans by the thousand. Therefore, whoever is contributing these amateur attacks is most certainly jealous. Brienne very much _should_ be aware of them, promptly dismiss them for the nonsense they are, and appreciate that she instigates such deep jealousy in the first place.”

It made sense. Jaime didn’t like it. He wanted blood and a bio-dome of blissful ignorance for Brienne so she would never suffer.

“Stop grimacing. It’ll ruin your looks.” Olenna took another bite of salmon.

“I don’t care about my looks.”

“Yes, you do.” She set down her silver fork. “Jaime boy, your looks are _why_ Brienne will always inspire jealousy, in addition to her own talent of course. If you expect to be her partner in perpetuity, you must both realize that she will face many comments in poor taste, because there won’t be many who will grasp why you of all people have decided to forego your expected supermodel pool of beauties in favor of a different sort of woman.”

He hadn’t expected to feel rage over lunch in a posh hotel restaurant. “And what does that mean?” He barely stopped himself from leaning forwarding to menace the old woman.

Olenna rolled her eyes. “You know what it means. Just because you’re in love with the woman doesn’t allow you to escape reality. This world is what it is, not what you want it to be. Enjoy what you have, ignore the rest, and live your life. That’s why I’m old as the pyramids of Meereen and my tits remain quite popular.”

Jaime felt as if he would blush as red as Brienne always did. _Harridan_ was too nice a word.

“Now,” she continued. “I do know of a good publicist, but in my opinion, the best course of action would be to laugh over this idiocy and show Brienne’s thousands of fans exactly why you’ve chosen to be with her. The best response to negative media is positive media. You can do that yourself.”

“You mean, _publicly_ show…stuff?” It was exactly what Jaime had been purposefully avoiding for the entirety of his relationship.

“Well now, I wouldn’t go bathing naked in a fountain in Baelor’s Square, but I think you can parse my meaning.”

“Brienne is very private. I don’t—”

“Brienne is private because she’s afraid of being hurt by the public. Use the public for your own purposes and there is nothing to be afraid of.”

Jaime sat back in his plush dining chair and pondered Olenna’s suggestions. It was in fundamental opposition to what he’d thought was the right path, but perhaps he should believe the old biddy who’s been navigating society for so long than no one alive could recall a time when she _hadn’t_ been talk of the town.

“All right, Olenna. I’ll think about it.”

“Jaime boy, go find your balls and take action. If you need me again, I’m charging by the hour.”

* * *

 

“Is this plan going to work? I don’t know if this plan is going to work.” Myrcy bit her nails which were already almost cut to the quick. This was all just _so_ horrible. It had taken them like, five days to even come up with _this_ maybe plan after they’d discovered the hater and her hateful hating hater motivation.

“It’s going to work.” Marg nodded confidently, but her eyes were maybe not quite as sure. “It _has_ to work.”

Sansa huddled on the rear-facing seat in Marg’s car parked in front of their school, banging her head back against the partition. Myrcy knew the Tyrell driver would be clenching his jaw again. She’d caught him doing that so many times. She hoped the Tyrells provided a good dental and medical plan. Poor Sansa, though, she thought this was all her fault.

“This is all my fault!” Sansa wailed as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Marg groaned. “No, it’s totally _not_. It’s clearly _my_ fault.”

“It’s not anybody’s fault but _hers,_ ” Myrcy insisted. “She should have just _said_ she was upset and talked to us, not gone on some heinous immature hate campaign against a beautiful unicorn she doesn’t even care about!”

“It’s still sort of my fault. I should have _seen_.” Marg’s humble whisper was just _so_ unlike her.

Myrcy put her arm around her friend. She would have to be the _adult_ one for a moment, even though she was terrible at adulting. “It’s not, I promise.”

“Well, _I_ should have known! I live with her!” Sansa wiped her face with the back of her hand and smeared mascara everywhere.

“You’re barely home, and she’s barely home, so how could anyone have known?” Myrcy nodded matter-of-factly.

“Gods, you guys, just let it be my fault for like three seconds!” Sansa shrieked.

“No, it has to be _my_ fault for four seconds!” Marg yelled back.

Sansa’s phone dinged.

Myrcy pointed at it, jabbing her finger back and forth in the air. “That’s her! It’s working! Is it working?”

Sansa fumbled for her phone, knocking it to the car’s floor.

Marg grabbed it. “Let me. I text faster.”

“What did she say?” Sansa sniffed.

“She says, _Y you no get ur own crap?_ ”

“Oh gods, my sister is a mini-bitch!” Sansa curled herself into a tighter ball.

“Not for long,” Marg warned quietly. “I’m texting back. _Not feeling good. Please?_ ”

“I don’t know if we should be lying so much.” Myrcy worried about her honor, because Quil in the books was always worried about honor, and she thought _Brienne_ was pretty much worried about honor, or at least like, modern integrity and stuff.

“We have to lie. It’s for the greater good.” Marg was insistent.

The phone dinged.

“ _Ugh. Coming._ She’s coming you guys! Hold yourselves together!” Marg cracked the window a tiny bit to get more air inside the car.

It was _hot_ and smelled like anxiety and Marg’s expensive perfume.

Sansa hid her face, but Myrcy and Marg stared out the window. It took _ages_ , but Arya Stark finally appeared on the school steps with her own and Sansa’s book bags slung over her shoulders. Myrcy was startled. She hadn’t paid any attention to Arya for years really. They never hung out at Sansa’s house since her parents kept trying to be like, _friends_ to them and wanted to play board games and have barbecue. And Sansa’s little brothers were super, super annoying. The older one was always climbing on things and spying on them, and the younger one would just run up to her and bark like a crazed animal.

So the fact that Arya Stark was no longer super, super short and didn’t have a boy haircut anymore, and looked actually kind of good in their black and white school uniform was pretty shocking. She didn’t look anything like fair princess Sansa, but she could maybe pull off a dark vengeful witch kind of thing. But right then, she was a total mini-bitch.

All three girls held their breath as Arya approached the Tyrell car.

“Okay guys,” Marg whispered. “Be cool. Don’t let her see.”

The car’s windows were tinted, so Arya knocked on the glass when she stopped by the rear door. Marg’s hand shook as she reached for the handle, taking so long that Arya cupped her hands around her face and plastered it against the glass.

“Hey tit squad! Your bag of crap is here!” she shouted.

Marg grinned widely and flung the door open, making Arya stumble. Before she could even react, Marg and Myrcy grabbed her by the arms and pulled her into the car where she fell onto the floor over the two backpacks, like a turtle turned over onto its shell.

“What the hells?!?” she screamed as Marg closed the car door, locked it, and put the window back up. All sealed in, three angry/despairing fangirls and one vengeful mini-bitch.

Sansa emerged from her cocoon of sorry, her expression that of a R’hllorian Revolutionary about to burn a load of people. “What the hells with you, _hater?!?!”_

Arya stopped flailing, her face beet red and her eyes glaring beams of fire into Sansa. “So you _know_ , and I don’t even _care_ , and _whatever_ , and you ain’t the _tits_!”

“Mom’s gonna smack you, mini bitch!” Sansa smacked her sister on the arm.

“I’ll tell mom you said _bitch_ and she’ll smack _you_!” Arya smacked Sansa on the leg.

“I’ll tell mom you said _tits_ like a million times!” Sansa smacked Arya on the shoulder.

“Ow! Bitch!” Arya smacked Sansa’s hands with both her hands.

“Who’s saying bitch _now!_ You’re a bitch!” Sansa smacked Arya’s hands back.  

She slipped on the floor into a pile of smacking hands. There was hair pulling. There was bra strap snapping. Myrcy and Marg sat back and let it happen, because Sansa needed to handle this part on her own.

The intercom buzzed. “Miss Margaery, is everything…safe back there?” the driver asked.

“Quite all right, Osney. Thank you. If I scream at any point, call Grandmother.”

“Right, Miss.” The intercom ceased buzzing.

“Ugh, he’s so dumb and not even hot,” Marg huffed.

Myrcy was worried. “I think we should stop them. It’s like a cat fight.”

“I suppose.” Marg observed the chaos for a moment longer and the reached down to grab Sansa by the shoulder. “You guys can stop now! And Arya, if you want to fight someone, fight _me_.”

Sansa looked and stopped smacking her sister. She had a sort of half black eye going on. She struggled to sit back on the seat and wiped tears away. Arya remained on the floor confined by backpacks.

“Whatever!” she shouted. “I’m not sorry about anything. Hashtag nobody understands!”

Myrcy was super, super mad at that. “ _You_ don’t understand! You’re mad at us, or at Marg or something, and you’re taking it out on an innocent unicorn of pureness and beauty! What has Brienne Tarth ever done to you? What has my uncle ever done to you! Why are you trying to hurt them?!?”

Arya growled like some wild wolf. “You _know_ why! It’s not fair. You get everything, and I almost had stuff and you took it! You hate love!”

“We _love_ love, you mini-bitch!” Myrcy wanted to tear Arya’s hair out herself, even though she wasn’t _her_ sister.

Marg grabbed Myrcy’s arm and held her back. “Hold up guys…Arya, we get that you’re mad because of Gendry reasons, but why couldn’t you just tell us that to begin with?”

Arya looked like she was staring at the dumbest people alive. “Oh gosh, like sure. Of _course_ I never thought of that! I could totally just go up to my perfect porcelain sister and be like, _oh hey, so I like this boy your friend stole from me, so could you like, make her give him back?_ ‘Cause that would work real well. Besides,” Arya twisted violently to look at Sansa. “You _knew_ I liked him, and then you had to go and tell Marg she should date him herself! Why did you do that?!? Why?!? I didn’t think you actually hated me.”

Sansa looked stunned. “I don’t _hate_ you! I mean, you’re totally a wicked hater, but I don’t hate _you_ , like, as a person!”

“Yes, you do! You knew I liked him!”

“I didn’t! I swear!” Sansa shook her head manically. “I didn’t.”

Arya punched the car seat. “You did, too! I told you like, at the beginning of the school year that there was this boy in shop who was really funny and stuff. I told you he liked swords, and _I_ like swords.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “You only said that _once_ , and you didn’t say it was Gendry at all!”

“Yeah, like there’s gonna be more than one boy in shop who likes swords!”

“I didn’t even know Gendry liked swords until, like, a month ago!” Sansa wailed.

“Hashtag ugh!” Arya shouted.

Marg cleared her throat, and Myrcy could see the _adult_ in her eyes again. “Arya, I… I suppose I see your side, and I’m sorry if you were hurt because of me, but you remember what Mrs. Harlaw always says in health class? That no one can steal a man who doesn’t want to be stolen?”

Arya stared at Marg with rage in her eyes, and then she burst out in tears. She looked so little, trapped their on the floor, limbs flailing, that Myrcy actually felt sorry for her. Almost.

Arya covered her face with her hands. “I..I’m sorry. I know. I’m sorry. I thought he liked me, but why would he like _me_ when there’s _you_?”

Marg furrowed her brow. “Did he _say_ he liked you?”

Arya snorted and nodded. “It took me like six months, and we were in shop making swords even though I had to blackmail Mr. Mott to let me in junior shop class at all, and Ge…Gendry said he would practice with me and teach me like, old school sword fighting and stuff, and…and…he said I was sort of great and maybe did I want to go to the weapon museum, and I sort of ran off and he got all weird and then he started going out with you!”

Sansa shrieked. “Gods, Arya, you totally blew him off! You totally did, and then you do this totally _extreme_ thing to get back at Marg who just picked up your sloppy seconds!”

“Hey! I take no one’s sloppy seconds!” Marg shouted.

“I did _not_ blow him off! I was going to say yes and then I never got the chance because _you_!”

Myrcy cleared her throat super loud the way Uncle Jaime did when he before he tried to explain things. “Um, first, Arya, you sort of did blow him off if you didn’t answer right away. You know? Second, Marg, um, I hate to say it, but you know, maybe Gendry is like, trying to make Arya jealous? You know? Because I don’t think he’s gay and he doesn’t want to do stuff with you?”

Marg and Sansa and Arya all stared at her like she’d grown another head, a weird ugly adult head.

Marg grimaced. “Oh gods, maybe so. Like, why doesn’t he want to sheath his stupid sword in _my_ lust scabbard?”

“He doesn’t want to bang you? Really?” Arya shouted.

“Oh my gods, no he doesn’t!” Marg whispered. “And like, why I should keep trying even? I’m worth _so_ much more than that idiot!”

“He’s not an idiot. Shut up!” Arya screamed.

Myrcy didn’t like being the one in the group to fix things. She _hated_ it, but sometimes, she had to be the bigger person even if it hurt real bad, because what if she only _thought_ she was making the right choices but was actually making the _wrong_ choices?

She cleared her throat and tried so hard to say the right things and ask the right questions. “Arya, did you…did you make that hate blog just to get back at us because of Gendry?”

Arya sniffed. “Well, my sister and Margaery. Not really you. I don’t even know you, like, _at all._ ”

“You’re so stupid!” Sansa wailed.

“ _You’re_ stupid!” Arya shouted back.

“Hold up!” Myrcy yelled. “So what were you thinking, Arya?”

Arya scrubbed her face and tried to turn over, but failed so she stared at the ceiling. “I just, I thought maybe if Margaery got distracted by the thing she hates about the thing she loves, maybe Gendry would get bored and leave her.” The poor girl’s voice grew so quiet Myrcy could barely hear.

She nodded to herself, because _saying the right things._ “So guys, the whole point of everything is to stop haters from saying bad things about Brienne. And there’s really only one hater, Arya, who is fake. So Arya…are you willing to accept that Margaery didn’t really _steal_ Gendry and maybe stop with the hate?”

Arya was silent for a few minutes. Sansa stared at her with her mouth hanging open, and Marg clenched her fists like she’d punch Arya if her answer wasn’t the _right_ answer.

Arya sucked in a pained breath. “I’ll stop. I’ll take it down. I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt that huge chick you love. I didn’t think she’d ever see. ”

“Her name is Brienne. Call her Brienne oh my gods!” Sansa shouted.

“Fine! _Brienne_!” Arya shrieked.

Marg finally broke her silence. “I don’t think Brienne _has_ seen, but hot Uncle Jaime has. He knows.”

“What?!?!” Myrcy and Sansa yelled at the same time.

“He’s the one who got the blog taken down the first time.”

“So that’s what happened,” Arya mused.

“How do you know?” Sansa wailed.

“I found out, when we got in trouble. He’s really, really mad about it.” Marg emphasized every word in a deadly tone.

Arya went pale. “He’s _mad_? Oh man, I didn’t want to make like a _real_ adult mad.”

Sansa banged her head against the partition. “Duh! You posted hate about a real person who happens to be like, the true love of all true loves to this super powerful hot guy and you expect _nothing to happen_?!?”

Myrcy cleared her throat. “Arya, I think if you apologized and explained, everything would be okay.”

Arya went paler. “Like, I have to _talk_ to him? For real?”

Marg picked up Myrcy’s train of thought. “Yes, absolutely. And maybe if you post on your blog to your like, twelve followers that you’ve changed your mind and think Brienne and hot Uncle Jaime are the tits of all relationships ever to have existed, and then you take it all down, and then you apologize to hot Uncle Jaime, maybe I’ll even find out if Gendry the Moron still likes you. Maybe.”

“For realsies?” Arya looked so young she’d practically gone fetal.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Okay. I agree. I’ll do it all.”

“And Arya,” Marg contined, “don’t be desperate for a boy. It’s beneath womenkind.”

“Shut your tits, I’ll do what I want!”

Sansa smacked her sister. “Gods, be civilized you stupid cow!”

“Calm down, both of you!” Myrcy shouted. “This is shaky like that old treaty between Yunkai and Meereen. We have to be _adult_ about it all.”

“You’re right, Myrcy. Of course.” Marg nodded. “So we’re agreed then?”

“Agreed.” Myrcy nodded.

“Yeah, agreed.” Arya nodded.

Sansa was the hold out. It was _her_ sister that they couldn’t kill ded after all.

Finally, she nodded. “Agreed. I hate it, but agreed.”

Margaery reached down and pulled Arya’s phone from her pocket. “Here. Step one is to renounce haterdom.”

Arya sniffed and accepted the phone. She tapped some stuff, and Myrcy pulled out her own phone to see when a new post came through. A minute later, she read from the new hater blog, _Guyz, I have decided to delete shit. I had dumbass reasons for posting this, and I don’t really think Brienne Tarth is the worst, and I don’t actually care about them at all. K bye._

It wasn’t the best they could hope for, but it wasn’t the worst.

Myrcy put her phone away. “Wait until tonight and delete everything, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Now,” Myrcy said, “Sansa and I will meet with Willas and Loras and Renly and finalize the flash mob plans, because now there’s _so_ much more to do. Arya, you go home and work on not being a bitch inside and wait for Marg to text. Marg, you have to  talk to Gendry.”

“I hate Gendry,” Sansa muttered.

“Shut up you frickin twatcicle,” Arya shrieked.

“Gross!” Marg shouted.

“Oh gods, this is the _worst_.” Myrcy rolled her head back along the seat and sighed.

* * *

 

Jaime was acting strangely. The whole week, since he’d left her flat after staying over. Not _bad_ strange exactly, but he seemed nervous. Brienne sighed as she stared at the gift-wrapped box on her table, lifting her fingers to re-tie the bow for the tenth time. Tape a stray corner. Move the card to the other side, then back again. Had she moved too fast? Had she been too bold? What if she were making the wrong choice about her final chapter?

Her phone dinged. It was a text from Jaime, which usually brought an instant smile to her face, but his nervousness was getting to her. _can you pick Tommen up today? have to sign papers. XoXoX thinking of your legs._

Well, that wasn’t unusual. She smiled and replied with a simple _yes_. He’d text again ten more times, she was sure, but he knew she had no idea what to do with the typically explicit things he wrote.

Maybe it was time to learn. She waited for the second text, and it would be about something higher than her legs. He had an order of service.

_i want to trail my fingers along the crease beneath the firm curve of your ass._

As expected. The next would be about the small of her back.

She replied. She had never replied before, _ever_. She refused to be afraid of the words she wanted to say.

_I’d let you._

She waited three whole minutes for him to reply.

_had to run away. hiding in a supply closet. what are you doing?!?_

Should she…? No, she couldn’t. But she was imagining him all flustered, locked away in a tiny dark room. Maybe she could…

_I’m about to take a bath._

Her phone rang. Her heart beat faster as she picked it up. “Hello?”

 _“Don’t_ hello _me, you know who it is, and what the hells are doing to me?”_

“You texted. I texted back.” She was trying so hard to remain cool and comfortable and not just hang up in embarrassment.

He sounded out of breath. _“You never text back! Not like that!”_

“Well, I just…I sort of…miss you this week.” She felt herself blush all over. Why did it have to be so hard to tell him things?

Silence, heavy breathing. _“We’ve seen each other every day. Every morning, every night. You’ve snuck back in.”_ More silence. More breathing. _“And I still miss you, too.”_

Was this the window of opportunity? Could she really ask? No, she knew she’d choke and sputter and make a mess of it all. She’d have to hope he’d ask first, if she led him into it. “Sneaking in is getting…hard.”

 _“I’m getting hard.”_ He chuckled in that deep voice he adopted in certain situations. It made that place in her lower abdomen clench.

She somehow thought her very voice was blushing through the phone signal. “You know what I mean. I just wish we didn’t have to sneak at all.”

Silence. _“Maybe we don’t.”_

“What do you mean? I know you worry about the children, and I understand. I appreciate that about you.”

 _“I appreciate that you appreciate it, but I mean…maybe there’s another option?_ ”

“What other option?” She wasn’t playing dumb exactly, she was having trouble believing it was so easy to introduce the idea of moving in. Had he already thought of it?

 _“Oh, you know, a quickie every day at my office.”_ He chuckled again, but she couldn’t tell if he were serious. Was he? Was that the other option? What if he wasn’t quite _there_ yet and she was a complete goner and he wasn’t really sure even though she thought he he’d been sure for ages?

She was as nervous as she’d thought Jaime had been before. “Um, well, I mean, I could be there more…at your house. More.”

No silence this time. _“Bloody hells, I have to go! I really do have papers to sign, really important, I promise.”_

“Oh, no it’s fine. Really.” It wasn’t fine.

_“See you later though. And…I think the house it kind of small, don’t you?”_

She froze. He said more things, and _the_ thing, but she barely heard. She whispered a _bye_ and let the phone drop onto the table. The house was sort of _small_? What in the seven hells did _that_ mean? Too small for her to be around more? It had to be. He didn’t want her around more. He wanted her to keep sneaking in, but not _move_ in.

It made no sense. The week they’d had was easy, lovely really. She felt that they were so close. She’s opened up so much. No, this made no sense at all. But the way he’d said it really seemed like one of those cautious let-downs, like _sure, great idea, but let’s not get too hasty_.

How else was she meant to take it? She stared at the wrapped box in front of her and grimaced. Her confidence was no longer there. She needed advice and had absolutely no one to ask. Unless…She picked up her phone.

* * *

 

Jaime signed his name on the dozens of pages the realtor had handed over. Why was it so ridiculously complicated to buy a house these days? It had taken him almost a whole week to find a good place at all, and he didn’t think it unreasonable to request that everyone involved speed things up a bit.

“All right, Mr. Lannister. Last one.” The agent, Pia something or other, beamed at him.

She should. She’d get a hefty commission from this sale, and he supposed since she’d been at least _sort of_ cooperative that he could have her sell the old place once they were all settled. Assuming Brienne liked the house. He liked it and he thought the children would like it, but it was really up to Brienne.

He signed the last paper. If she didn’t like it, he’d just resell and find another. The place needed a tiny bit of work to make it good enough for Brienne. He’d make a profit if he added just a new coat of paint.

“There we are, Mr. Lannister. It can’t be finalized until the inspector does his thing, but there shouldn’t be any problems.” Pia beamed some more.

“When will that happen?”

“Since you’ve…requested speed, the rush charges guarantee an inspection within two days.”

“Excellent. I don’t like to wait.” He looked around at the decently-sized front room and nodded in satisfaction.

There had only been three homes on the market that met his requirements: six bedrooms, at least three bathrooms, two offices, and a family room large enough to hold everyone. He didn’t think it was an unreasonable list. Pia had disagreed vehemently at first until she realized he would not budge.

After all, Tommen and Myrcella would need a room each, and one for him and Brienne. One for guests. And two more for whatever the future might hold. He had been willing to sacrifice his own office if it meant the rest of the list could be found, but fortunately, Pia had found this nicely structured home with a tiny office and two dining rooms. He could easily take the tiny one as his and change the doors of the smaller dining room to make it Brienne’s office. She would need space and quiet for writing, that was certain.

“Mr. Lannister?” Pia spoke hesitantly.

“Oh, yes. Anything else?”

“I just enquired whether you might need an interior designer.”

Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. When he’d found their current place, it had been in a rush once he’d won custody of the children. He hadn’t had time to really _look_ or change anything. This new house would be a real home. Brienne could decide how she wanted it to look, as the proper Lady Lannister if the title meant anything anymore, which it really didn’t.

He shook himself free of the thought. He remembered that his proposal was just that, a proposal and not a demand. No expectation of anything. It was a gesture. But that bizarre talk with Olenna Tyrell had really gotten him thinking about the future. He knew exactly what he wanted. Brienne. Maybe some children someday, if she wanted. None, if she didn’t.

He fingered the little box in his pocket, and he’d have to check with his lawyer about the progress on Tommen’s adoption papers. Cersei would put up a massive fight if she could even be found, and he hoped she couldn’t. If she didn’t respond, he’d win the adoption case by default. Thinking of children has made him realize that Tommen could still be given back to Cersei at some point, if she wanted. The custody was too tenuous for his liking. He’d have to talk to Tommen soon, too, to see what he thought.

So yes. Things were going very well. He seemed to have found his balls.

 


	6. In Which There is an Apology, an Ambush, and a Desperate Measure

 

Jaime sat across the dining table from Tommen, the hated book of fractions open between them. “Are you sure that’s what she said?”

Tommen glanced up from his homework. “Yes.”

“Exactly? Word for word?” Jaime pressed, leaning forward on his elbows.

“Yes.” Tommen sighed. “She dropped me off and said she had a meeting and to tell you not to wait for her since she didn’t know how long she’d be.”

This was odd. Brienne always told him when she had meetings, especially night meetings. Why hadn’t she told him? Was _he_ getting clingy? Of course he was clingy, but that was just his thing. She hadn’t minded before.

“Uncle Jaime?” Tommen set his pencil down, and spoke in such a quiet tone.

“Yes?” Jaime’s brow furrowed. The boy looked so serious.

“Is Brienne ever going to live here with us so we can all stop figuring out where to park the cars and you can relax and not leave the back window open all night?”

Jaime choked on air. Where did the boy get _that_ idea? And how did he know about the sneaking around? The whole point of _not_ asking Brienne to move in before was so Tommen and Myrcy wouldn’t equate him with their mother, wouldn’t think he just brought women into their lives only to reject them once things got too comfortable. Like Cersei had.

That was the only way he knew how to be a guardian, to do what Cersei did _not_ do.

He cleared his throat. “What do you think of that idea?”

Tommen smiled a little. “She’s family.”

Jaime felt stunned. All this time, he’d been so worried about setting an example, about being stable and normal for his charges, he hadn’t even considered that Brienne had already become part of that normal. The most normal thing he could do was to solidify it all by taking Olenna’s advice and just _living_ the way he wanted to.

Jaime smiled at the boy. “Then yes, I would love it if Brienne lived here all the time.” He thought of the new house and the deep satisfaction he felt from signing the papers. Maybe now was a good time to tell Tommen about the move. “Of course, this place is a little small for all of us.”

Tommen blanched. Oh dear. Jaime still couldn’t anticipate how a child would react to even innocent phrases. “What’s wrong?”

“Is it…is it Briann the Lizard? His cage isn’t going to get bigger, I promise!”

Jaime shook his head rapidly. “No, no, it’s not Briann the Lizard. He’s too tiny to make a difference.”

Tommen didn’t stop blanching, his eyes blown wide and his palms flat on the table. What the hells did he do now?

He opened his mouth to object to whatever mysterious thing was happening in Tommen’s head, but the front door flung open and released the sound of a wild pack of teenagers.

Myrcy barged in with Sansa and Margaery behind her, and a dark-haired girl who seemed younger than the rest. She also had an impressive scowl twisting her mouth, several scratches marring her arms, and one sagging sock. Sansa’s school blouse was untucked. She did not look perfect and polished as was her habit. What _had_ gone on?

Myrcy sucked in a deep breath and promptly coughed. “Um, Uncle Jaime, this is Sansa’s sister Arya. She has something to say to you. Tommen, come upstairs for a minute, okay?”

Tommen still looked too pale, but he slid out of his seat and followed Myrcy and her friends, picking up a sleeping Ser Pounce from the couch along the way. The boy glanced back at the living room, scanning it like he’d never see it again, and he moved out the door with Myrcy’s arm around his shoulders.

Jaime was left alone in the dining room with an unknown teenage girl who clearly didn’t want to be there. He almost expected the host of that Northern true crime show, _To Catch a Flayer_ to appear. He was going to have words with Myrcy about this.

He tried to smile a very business-like, distant smile at the girl. “Hello there.” No, that was too interested. “What can I do for you?” No, that was too open to interpretation. Finally, he went for honesty. “As I don’t know you at all, I have no idea what you could need to say to me.”

The girl shuffled from foot to foot and glanced around nervously. “Um, so, yeah. I guess…I’m supposed to say sorry for some stuff. So, sorry.”

Jaime had no idea what was happening. “What are you sorry for that has to do with me?”

“Um, so…” the girl sighed deeply and marched over to Tommen’s abandoned chair, plopping down and resting her chin on her palms. “I guess…okay, so, you know that Fumblr you had taken down because of reasons?”

Jaime felt the hairs on the back of head neck rise. This couldn’t be good. This wasn’t going to be good. This was going to be terrible. “What?”

“Yeah, that Fumblr…I ran it. Sorry.”

Sansa Stark’s sister was the _hater?_ How? _Why_?

He couldn’t sue this young girl for everything she had in the world. Very disappointing.

What was he even supposed to say? Oh yes, he was the adult. He swallowed and pondered. “Do your parents know about this?”

Arya nearly jumped in her chair. “No! Please don’t tell! It was a mistake, I swear!”

Jaime thought he should probably phone the Starks right there and then, but that could open a brand new can of worms. Ned Stark absolutely hated him for being a bit wild in his youth. That was all it was, but Ned was the most immovable person Jaime had ever met.

Self-preservation required that Arya Stark would get away with this one. Jaime rubbed his eyes. “I won’t call. But please explain why you did this. I just want to understand.”

Arya remained silent for several moments before launching in a rushed tale about lost love and man thievery and sister bullying and slang he could understand only slightly. But at the heart of it, the motive was about that boy, Fake Renly, and not Brienne and not himself. He would never, ever, understand the teenage mind.

He knew a grimace had been plastered on his face the entire time. “So you attacked an actual person for extraordinarily superficial reasons which could genuinely wound that person, just because you have a crush?”

“It’s not a crush! I swear! I didn’t mean to hurt anyone!” Arya fidgeted so much that he could barely track her hand movements. She was clearly trying not to cry and act like Sansa.

Of course it was a crush. The girl was maybe fifteen years old, but if she were convinced otherwise, Jaime knew enough that there’d be no talking to her. “Listen, you can’t do something like this again, Arya. You have to realize that the things you say, even on the internet, can affect people. When I saw what you had posted, I had that blog taken down because I was furious. I don’t want to see the people I love being mocked that like, so try to imagine how I felt, hmm? How would you like it if…if Margaery were to post a photo of Gendry with his head cut off and replaced by a boar with some snarky caption? Would you be okay with that?”

Arya looked thunderstruck. She froze, and the sudden stillness made her look even younger. “I’d hate that,” she whispered.

“Exactly.” Jaime nodded.

She whispered again. “I’m sorry, really. I mean it. I made a mistake.”

This time, she did look as if she would cry. Jaime sat back in his chair and sighed. He still sort of wanted to put her in some jail for moronic schoolchildren where they only served oatmeal and room temperature water, but this kid was just…a kid. Kids made stupid mistakes.

“I accept your apology. I hope you learn from this.” He thought that was the best sort of response he could muster.

She nodded up and down like a bobblehead. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll never say mean things about not mean people again.”

“Good. Then…okay, good.” Jaime thought they were done, but the girl didn’t move. Should he get up? Should he call for Myrcy?

Arya sputtered out, “I thought you were like some fake celebrity couple.”

“What?” Why would anyone think that?

“Well, it’s just, the stuff my dumb sister and her stupid friends—”

“Watch it,” Jaime warned.

She coughed. “Sorry, my _sister_ and her friends posted, the photos and stuff about you and that woman, Brienne, they just…they looked so fake. Like you guys posed for them or something. ‘Cause you always just smiled and looked into each other’s eyes like you could see souls and looked perfect. I thought it was fake.”

Jaime couldn’t decide it her description was more hilarious or sad. He shook his head. “It’s not fake.”

“You really love her like that? So you smile just all the time?” Arya looked desperate for the answer.

Jaime smiled. He couldn’t help it. A smile happened of its own volition whenever he thought of Brienne. “Yeah, I do.”

Arya looked down at the table, seemingly fascinated by her hands. “Okay. Maybe Sansa doesn’t really hate love. Thank you for not yelling at me and stuff. I really am sorry.”

“I believe you.” Jaime was surprised that he actually did.

Arya nodded, mostly to herself, and then slid off the chair. She didn’t look back until she was almost in the hall. “You’re not as much of a dumbass as my dad says you are.”

Jaime had no time to respond since she moved out of sight towards the front door. It clicked shut behind her, and then the girls from upstairs descended in a noisy herd.

“Where did she go?”

“Did she say sorry?”

“She was supposed to text me! Sisters are so stupid!”

They tumbled out the door after Arya, and there was no sign of Tommen behind them. Jaime moved out into the hall to call up the stairs, “Tom? You still have to finish your homework.”

Silence, and then. “I will do so after dinner. Briann the Lizard is shedding his skin.”

Jaime shuddered. He practically _liked_ Ser Pounce compared to the hideous lizard. The boy would be occupied by this new, disgusting beast development for a while, Jaime knew, so he’d have to tell him about the new house later. He glanced into his office, still in disarray, and smiled at the sight of his desk. The house and adoption papers were in folders on top, and the memory of the other thing that had occurred on that desk was burned into his brain.

He hoped the place he’d chosen for dinner wasn’t too fancy for her. She didn’t like stuffy atmospheres, but he couldn’t handle taking her to some diner somewhere. They usually compromised with a nice local spot, but for that night, he wanted something just a bit nicer. For the proposal. The _fake_ proposal which would lead to the giving of the real house key.

His plans had begun with reservations, a bouquet of three dozen white lilies because Brienne hated roses, a box of those little Dornish chocolates she loved, and a harpist. He’d subsequently decided against the harpist, then the chocolates, then the lilies. It was too much, even though he himself would want to lavish ten times that amount of nonsense on her.

He pulled the little box from his trouser pocket and flicked it open.

Brienne didn’t wear jewelry. She didn’t like the feel of things just hanging about on her skin, and always thought it was too fussy and likely to catch on her clothes. He knew the ring was just a token, to convey his seriousness. He knew that. It had been his idea, after all. He knew, but maybe…

He snapped the lid shut, wondering if she would actually like the very simple ring anyway. It had a thin platinum band and only some tiny little diamonds in a setting around a sapphire. He probably shouldn’t have thought about the design quite so much, since she wouldn’t be wearing it.

He glanced up to see Tommen at the top of the stairs, peering down with those same wide eyes. The boy darted back into his room without a word. Jaime really had no idea what was going on with _anyone_ lately. It was ridiculous. He moved into the office to put the ring in his desk drawer for safekeeping. He was going to ask her tomorrow, and when she refused, he’d show her the house papers and ask her to move in so she’d still have her freedom, but they could be together all the time and not worry about what anyone thought. It was great plan. Great. It _was_.

* * *

 

Brienne was in shock. She knew her mouth was gaping open like a caught fish, but there was nothing to be done about it.

“Honestly, dear, how did you think he would respond to such an attack against you?” Olenna Tyrell smirked at her from her corner of the plush rose damask sofa.

“I…I…” Brienne sputtered, setting down her cup of tea on the little side table.

She’d phone Olenna Tyrell, the _Harridan_ as Jaime always called her, for some simple advice about things like _moving too fast._ She hadn’t expected to face a revelation that somebody on the internet had decided to post hate about her, that Jaime had gone completely… _Lannister_ about it, and that he had not only already thought about her moving in, but that he was considering the purchase of a new house entirely.

She tried to focus on the part that bothered her, because the other parts were causing some very deep things to happen in her head that she was almost more afraid to consider. “The posts must have been very bad for Jaime to be so upset.”

Olenna waved her hand in dismissal. “It was all some teenage nonsense, that’s certain, but quite frankly, dear, Jaime boy would get _upset_ if an autumn leaf had the audacity to fall on you without permission. He’s quite insane.”

Brienne felt an inherent need to defend him. “He’s just very protective.”

Olenna leaned forward, and though Brienne was essentially twice the size of the terrifying old woman, Olenna had all the power. “Dear girl, he’s not simply protective, he’s very deeply in love with you. You really must do something about that.”

“Do…do something?” Brienne hated how her voice was on the verge of shaking, how she felt closed up in fear rather than elated from Olenna’s words. She took a deep breath. She was working on this. She was fighting the fear, she had to remember.

Olenna leaned her head back against a plush cushion. “Oh gods, adults these days. No balls at all.” She peered at Brienne with smirking eyes only a Tyrell could pull off. “Yes, do something. As in, decide if you love him back enough to ignore what anybody says, whether jealous teenager or bloodsucking journalist, and to put up with his nonsense. Because if you don’t, you’re truly going to tear his heart out.”

Brienne didn’t think she had the capacity to feel even more shock, but her insides made room. It wasn’t as if she’d thought they’d break up, she just hadn’t dared think about anything beyond what they already had. A status quo. A situation wherein they spent a lot of time together doing normal things like eating and running and watching television, with the added and previously unexpected bonus of having what she considered to be a crazy amount of sex. There were days she couldn’t kick box because of it.

But then Tommen had to go and say that thing about _moving in_ , and she’d had to immediately bury the fact that she wanted that above all things. So there she was on Olenna Tyrell’s rose damask couch faced with the possibility of not only having what she wanted quite easily, but that she somehow had the power to really hurt Jaime if she continued to fear what they could have if she only asked. She’d never thought of that.

“I’m so stupid,” she whispered, because Olenna’s words had rung so true.

“No, dear, you’re not stupid at all. You’re afraid.”

She met Olenna’s savvy gaze and let herself think. If she took a breath, if she let it all sink in and thought about it all with a clear head…she wasn’t afraid.

“I’m not,” she said, without a blush burgeoning even a little.

Olenna stared at her for a moment. “Good. I’d be very put out if I’d been wrong about you.”

Brienne smiled slowly, a very easy smile that grew bigger until it showed most of her teeth. “I think you’re rarely wrong about anything.”

* * *

 

On Brienne’s table were two stacks of white paper. One had been all wrapped up in the box with the bow she’d had a terrible time tying so it looked decent. The other had been printed the night before in a fit of intense self-doubt. She should never have taken the stack out of the box since that bow would be a plague for a second time.

The stacks were her final chapter, both versions. The one that had always existed where Quil died, and the one that had been finished the previous morning after many days of shaking fingers and trepidation. In that one, Quil did not die. Neither did Ian. She could barely believe she’d actually committed to paper an ending so fundamentally opposed to her original vision. She’d almost burned it twice.

She stared at the stacks for a moment longer, then she wrote some things down on a crisp yellow post-it note and stuck it to the top page of one of the stacks. She placed them both in the box, and she re-wrapped it, and she tied the bow five times.

Her phone rang. She’d wondered when Jaime would call since he’d gone over his usual absence-of-communication limit of three hours.

“Hi,” she said in an unfamiliar voice filled with smiles.

He took a second. _“Hi back. Gods, I wanted to talk to you so badly.”_

“Me too,” she confirmed without any embarrassment at all.

 _“Really?”_ He sounded so surprised and happy that she felt terrible.

Had she never told him that she loved talking to him? That she only didn’t call or text as often as he did because she never _had_ to, because he always did it first? “Yes, really. I…I hate not talking to you for this long.”

 _“I seriously want to run over there right now. Gods, this isn’t fair.”_ He whined like he did when something was going wrong.

“What’s happened?”

_“You’re voice distracted me, but I called to tell you that we can’t do dinner tonight. I’m in a taxi on the way to the emergency veterinarian.”_

“Oh no, is it Ser Pounce?” Brienne felt actual fear for the spoiled cat. Tommen would have to be committed if anything happened to the creature.

 _“Thank the gods, no._ ” He lowered his voice, and then Brienne could hear Tommen talking to something. _“It’s Briann the Lizard. He’s…molting, or something and Tommen took him out of his cage to do something or other, and he swallowed one of Ser Pounce’s cat show medals. Briann, not Tommen. The medal is massive. I have no idea how it’s supposed to come out…”_

Brienne could picture Jaime closing his eyes and rolling his head back on the taxi seat. It’s what he always did during chaotic cat situations. “Do you want me to meet you?”

_“The answer is always yes, but we’re already on the other side of town. Look, I know you need to write, finish your book and everything. Or just relax and take a bath and imagine what you know I’ll imagine thinking of you taking a bath. That could work.”_

Brienne laughed. She considered all the ways he was so transparent about his feelings, and she wished she could be so free about it, too. She could learn. He deserved that. “Okay then, I’ll take a bath and think of you the whole time.”

_“You’re killing me. I’m dead.”_

“Well, I’m not going to kiss a corpse, so you’d better reverse that.”

 _“I’m staying dead until I see you tomorrow. Dinner?_ ”

She decided to be bold. “Always.”

She heard him groan and hang up just after shouting something about Briann the Lizard vomiting in the taxi.

* * *

 

Perched on a bleacher in the University of King’s Landing’s basketball venue, Willas Tyrell stared in awe at the bedlam unfolding before him. He had anticipated that Loras and Renly’s acapella flash mob would be, at the least, a poorly practiced circus act, and, at the most, a whole carnival of flashing neon and deafening disharmony.

He had not considered that it would be good.

Oh, he definitely hated it. There was nothing happening in front of him during this dress rehearsal that he enjoyed in any fashion whatsoever, but he could acknowledge when something was _good_ despite his personal preferences.

There were two hundred students hopping about to Loras’ choreography as they sang _their_ song. Not the song of the students, the song he had written with Sansa. Sansa Stark. Margaery’s friend. Well, she’d written the lyrics, and he’d composed the music. He thought they’d worked rather well together.

He reached down and massaged his lame leg. Damn the thing. It hated hard surfaces like bleachers, and he longed for his wingback armchair. Sansa had preferred the rose damask chaise lounge as she liked to stretch out while writing. Sometimes, she would rest on her stomach with her legs kicking about. He’d thought she might mock him for living with Grandmother rather than on campus, but she hadn’t. He just couldn’t abide the insanity of campus life.

She was on her way… _all the girls_ were on their way to add some mysterious component to the mob’s performance. They hadn’t yet said what, but Renly was rightfully nervous about it, and Loras had screamed several times. This absurd mob had become like Loras’ child.

The double doors on the far end of the court opened, allowing sunlight to stream in, bathing the squad of girls as they entered like pageant princesses with matching gaits. Willas smiled to himself as he thought the whole show would be more effective in slow motion with fans blowing their hair.

They brought an addition with them, as well. A girl Willas didn’t know who was quite a bit shorter than the rest, and dark-haired. She stood out from the other three and not only because of her scowl. She pulled a child’s red wagon stacked with precarious boxes.

Margaery led the pack to a halt in front of Loras and Renly with the two hundred lower classpersons behind them, standing like drones awaiting command.

“Margaery,” Loras intoned with a pre-emptive sneer.

“Loras,” Margaery responded with equal preparedness for combat.

This could be extremely entertaining.

Renly broke the standoff. He always did. “We’re rehearsing the _final_ version. It’s looking fantastic here in this dismal space, so it’s going to be _amazing_ out in Baelor’s Square.”

Margaery mouth adopted a wide grin. “Obvs! We had every faith in you, dear boys.”

Standoff again.

Willas turned a little to see if Sansa had noticed him. But that was stupid. He shouldn’t look at her. He looked at her.

She was looking at him. She smiled and waved a tiny little kitten wave. The dark-haired scowler standing behind her punched her in the arm. Sansa slapped the girl’s hand. _Ah, sisters._

Poor Renly had no fortitude. “Margaery, what is it that you want? We really can’t change anything so late in the game.”

“Oh, I _know_ , darlings,” Margaery oozed. “I just had a fab idea. The girls agree. Don’t you, girls?”

The girls nodded. Not the scowling one who simply crossed her arms over her chest.

“And what is this _fab_ idea?” Loras drawled.

“Well,” Margaery pointed to the stack of boxes on the wagon, “this is going to be _so_ amazeballs that it really must be preserved for like, all of time. Like a precious cinnamon roll.”

“Just say what you want and what’s in the boxes!” Loras shrieked.

“Calm your man-tits!” Margaery yelled. “They’re Go-Pros, okay! Like, fifty Go-Pros! I got Osney to agree to film the mob from Grandmother’s hotel on the Square, and Arya here, Sansa’s sister, is going to film from the other side because she owes us like, _huge_ , and this one boy who’s pretty stupid is going to film from _another_ side, he just doesn’t know it yet—”

“He’s not stupid, you’re stupid!” the scowling girl yelled.

“Whevs.” Margaery shrugged. “He’s going to say yes. And then I thought _you’d_ get somebody or other to film from the _last_ side, and then fifty of the mobbers wear Go-Pros, and it’ll be like, three sixty degrees of filming plus immersion plus proof plus _all the things_ for all time!”

Loras looked terrified. Willas could tell he didn’t hate the idea of having his precious musical infant immortalized for at least five minutes on the internet, but Margaery’s motive remained opaque. If he were honest, Willas was rather impressed that Margaery had thought about placing wearable cameras on the flash mobbers. It would provide quite the unique perspective.

“Why do you care so much?” Loras stepped closer to Margaery and peered down at her with seeping suspicion.

Margaery seemed to consider her options. Willas knew that look, the one where his sister consulted her inner Grandmother and determined the best course forward to enact her own agenda. Loras and Garlan, and even Renly who was basically a Tyrell by extension, did not understand how much like Grandmother Margaery really was. They’d be cowed by her will before they even knew it had happened.

Margaery smiled. “Sansa wrote the song. I love Sansa. Everyone loves Sansa, so we absolutely _must_ preserve this for all eternity. Because it’s by Sansa. We love Sansa. We love Sansa like we love cinnamon and moms. Sisterhood forever.”

It was a trap. There was no reason to mention mothers since their own Tyrell mother was perpetually off leading meditation retreats in various national parks and gardens, Myrcella’s mother was…somewhere. Drinking or in rehab for drinking, that was well known. And Sansa’s mother didn’t seem to be terribly aware of very much at all.

There was clearly something else at play, but poor thick Loras and Renly would never see it before it was too late. Willas thought he really should warn them, but he was always put in the unfortunate position of picking sides. And of course, he _had_ written the music for the song, so it wouldn’t be terrible to have it preserved. Sansa would enjoy that. He remained silent.

Loras finally nodded. “Yes, that makes sense. I guess.”

“Fab! I brought all the Go-Pros so you can choose who wears them, and you just gave to find someone to film that last side of the square. It’s going to be so _great_ , and we’ve even decided on a hashtag!”

“We already have a hashtag! Usurper!” Loras yelled.

“Pretentious prick!” Margaery yelled.

“Hashtag Mob Madness!” Renly yelled.

The girls sneered at the same time.

“Really? _That’s_ your hashtag? It’s terrible!” Margery said.

 In all fairness, it _was_ terrible.

“Like you’ve got something better!” Loras sneered back at them.

Sansa’s delicate voice pierced the grating cacophony of his siblings. “Hashtag The Final Chapter. Because…you’re seniors.”

Margaery nodded. “Yes. Because you’re seniors and nothing else.”

“No other reason,” Myrcella chimed in randomly, as was the way of teenage girls.

Loras grimaced. “That’s…not terrible.”

“Obvs.”

Renly put his hands on his hips. “Let’s just use and get going. We’ve still got to rehearse at least ten more times, Lor! The mob is _tomorrow_!”

Loras nodded. “Okay. We’ll use it. But you’ve got to leave us alone to make this work.”

“Of course, dear brother!” Marg grinned in a nearly creepy way. “We’re off to do…other things. Maybe make a mom somewhere eat some cinnamon. Arya, leave the wagon. Ta!”

He hadn’t had the chance to talk to Sansa. He looked at her again, prepared to give a little wave of his own, but she was already staring at him with sad eyes. Why was she sad? Was Margaery making her sad? He didn’t want her to be sad.

His leg was extremely stiff, and he struggled to set it in position to stand, reaching for his brace. By the time he managed, Sansa was dissolving out of the sunlit door with crimson streaks of her hair fluttering behind her.

* * *

 

“That went remarkably well!” Margaery confirmed as they headed back to Myrcy’s house after triple-checking that the camera angles in Baelor’s Square would capture absolutely _everything_.

It was vital that they didn’t miss a single second. The mob was going to super popular no matter how stupid it was, and Myrcy couldn’t think of a better place to engineer an Uncle Jaime/Unicorn of Wonder Brienne public display of affection to end _all_ public displays of affection. It had been decided. It would be their last act of fangirl heroism before retirement. Probably.

She opened her front door with the other three girls behind her.

“Why haven’t you talked to Gendry yet? I don’t wanna hang out.” Arya practically _shouted_.

Marg sighed in aggravation. “Time! Gods. I told you. Besides, I already texted him about filming in the Square, and he said he’d do it. We’re all going to be there tomorrow. We’ll talk then.”

“Ugh, fine. Hashtag can’t you just see my position.” Arya crossed her arms and wandered into the living room to plop on the couch.

“Sisters,” Sansa muttered.

 Myrcy headed toward the stairs but noticed Uncle Jaime in his office, stuffing something into his pocket and peering at a bunch of papers on his desk.

“Hey,” she called.

He looked up. “Hey yourself. I’m glad you’re here, too. I have something to talk about.”

Myrcy felt immediately petrified because phrases like that never meant good things.

Uncle Jaime glanced at her friends. “Girls, could you give us a minute, please?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. I’m just going to go think about some cinnamon.” Margaery winked at Myrcy and climbed the stairs to her room. “Sansa, come on. And get your sister!”

Sansa silently beckoned to Arya who scowled as she followed. Uncle Jaime pulled Myrcy into the office and shut the door.

“Okay, so…” He ran his fingers through his hair. That meant nerves. Uh oh.

“Is everything _okay_?” Myrcy asked to make him just say whatever hideous thing he was going to say.

Uncle Jaime sighed. “It’s not bad. I hope. It’s just…I really should have asked you about this, but I got a bit carried away.” He smiled to himself almost bashfully. He was _never_ this nervous.

“Is Brienne okay?” she blurted out.

Uncle Jaime’s brows drew together. “Yes, she’s fine.” He looked straight at her. “ _We’re_ fine. It’s just…well, I want to move forward with her. With all of us. And…this place is getting small. I know you’re moving into the dorms with Margaery and Sansa in the fall, but—”

She couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t bury it any longer. “I don’t want to move into the dorms!”

Uncle Jaime froze and stared at her. “What?”

Was he mad? He was mad. Was he?

“Are you mad? I’ll move. I just…don’t want to. Not yet.” She felt traitorous tears build up in the corners of her eyes. “I won’t get in the way, I promise. I won’t bother Brienne ever again.”

Uncle Jaime sighed. “Of course I’m not mad. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do either. I just thought that’s what you wanted.”

“I don’t know if I want to go to uni,” she whispered.

He froze again. He swallowed. He looked like he always looked when he didn’t know how to parent. She’d usually grin, but not this time. “Well, um, I wish you’d said that before we signed the acceptance papers, but it’s not too late to withdraw.”

She felt frozen this time. “You’d let me?”

Uncle Jaime took a step forward and put his arm around her shoulders. “I just want you to be happy. Of course, I don’t want you to just loll around and do nothing, and I hope you can see the value of a degree for your future—”

“Oh, I want to go sometime, I think. Just maybe not now. Or maybe if I don’t have to live in the dorms it would be better? I don’t know what I want!” She felt a few tears slipping out.

He cleared his throat again. “Maybe we could consider a gap year. You could work or volunteer.”

In Myrcy’s mind, things had been black and white. Go to uni and be miserable and make everyone else happy, or not go to uni and be happy and make everyone else miserable. “Oh gods oh gods, you’re just the _best_! I don’t even understand how much best you are!”

He downright hugged her then. “Myrcy, we’re going to talk about this, a lot, and we’ll look at the options, but I’m afraid I’m in a rush right now.” He leaned back to make sure she saw his face. “This is important. I’m not blowing you off, okay?”

“I know.” She smiled.

“Good. What I wanted to tell you was that,” he cleared his throat and tapped the desk with his fingers, “I bought us a new house. Its—”

“What!!?!” She shrieked. “Seriously? Oh my gods!”

He chuckled. “Well, I said it was getting too small around here.”

Myrcy’s heart sunk in her chest. “Does it…I mean, I didn’t tell you I didn’t want to live in the dorms. Is there…”

He ruffled her hair. “You will still have your own room.”

“Really!?!? Oh my gods!”

“I’m not going to kick you out, Myrcy. Ever. We’re Lannisters. Family is everything.” He seemed so serious that she knew he was absolutely telling the truth. And he still seemed nervous.

“What else aren’t you telling me?”

“You’ve been around Tyrion too much.” He grinned. “Okay, fine. I’m off to have dinner with Brienne, and I’m going to ask her if she wants to move into the new house with us. Permanently.”

“Oh my gods!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No way! How! Help! I’m dying!” Myrcy started jumping up and down uncontrollably at the idea of the one true OTP of all OTPS to _finally finally_ be all the things!

“Shh, please!” he whispered. “I haven’t told Tommen yet. He doesn’t know we’re moving, and you know how sensitive he it. I have to broach it right.”

“He’s going to love it, I know! He loves Brienne!”

“Well, so do I, so that’s good.” He looked at his stack of papers.

Myrcy pressed both her hands over her stomach to keep the scream in. She’d never heard him say it before, the _lurve_ thing. Oh. My. Gods. She couldn’t even.

“And Myrcy, I need to tell you this, too, but again, Tommen doesn’t yet know. Can you keep it mum until I’m ready?” He peered at her with his piercing green eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I’m a little concerned, about your mother’s…issues. I’ve filed adoption papers for Tommen. To protect him in case she wants to pursue custody again. I haven’t filed them for you because you’re going to be eighteen in just four months. There isn’t much she can do in that time, but I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care about you as much as I do about Tommen. Okay?”

Myrcy started to bawl. She couldn’t help it. Uncle Jaime was just _so_ amazeballs. She nodded manically. “I know, I know. Oh my gods, we’re so lucky.”

He hugged her for a second time, _and_ ruffled her hair. “Good.”

“Why now?” She thought it must be Brienne, because unicorn.

“Well,” he bit his lip in that way he did that drove women nuts, “I just thought it was time to solidify some things.” He glanced at his watch. “And I really have to go so I’m not late to dinner.”

“Okay.” She thought of the thing she saw him stuff into his pocket. “Did you put the house key in a nice box?”

Uncle Jaime’s eyes went wide. “Uh, no. Just a box. In my pocket. Really must go.”

He darted away.

It wasn’t a key. In the pocket, not a key. In a nice box.

_Gods._

She ran upstairs, almost falling flat on her face. She burst into her room, tripped, and got rug burn on both elbows. The girls stared at her, except for Arya who was jamming to something loud coming from her ear buds.

“What’s wrong?” Sansa asked.

“Nothing and everything! Uncle Jaime just told me a bunch of great stuff, and he _finally finally_ said he loves Brienne, like _out loud_!”

“Oh my—”

“Hold up!” Myrcy shouted. “And he’s going to ask her to move in tonight, but also, he has a nice little box in his pocket and I asked about it and he said it wasn’t the house key and I think he’s going to propose which means the entire acapella flash mob tribute to their love is going to be for _nothing_!”

Marg sank to the floor from the bed in a smooth cascade of sad. “We can’t let that happen! It’s too perfect! Can we let that happen?”

“I don’t know what to do!” Myrcy screamed.

“What’s happening?” Sansa wailed.

“Tit squad meltdown, woot.” Arya mumbled.

Marg adopted her total _adult_ look. “We worked hard for this, guys. _Hard_. I’m giving up my boyfriend I don’t like for this. Sansa wrote a song for this. We can’t let it fail. It’s our last _thing_.”

They remained silent, lost in thought and despair, for just a moment.

Then Myrcy decided. “We have to stop a proposal so we get a better proposal tomorrow.”

“Idiot twatcicles,” Arya muttered. 

 


	7. In Which There is a Phone Call, a Fake Injury, and a Serious Misunderstanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it, I swear! Posted on Day Seven at 11:32 PST, so it totally counts. 
> 
> But...this thing has become a monster and I've had to split the final chapter. There will now be a total of eight chapters, and the last will post tomorrow. 
> 
> Also, all hail Mikki as she's beta'd every bit of this and most of it literally at the last minute. I've tortured her. I'm like a Bolton or something.

 

“What do we do, guys? I don’t even know!” Myrcy lay flat on her carpet with limbs outstretched, staring at the ceiling in hopes that the Maiden would take mercy on _Myrcy_ and send her a plan.

“We’ve got to act fast,” Marg insisted. “Hot Uncle Jaime’s already in a taxi!”

“It’s all been for nothing!” Sansa wailed.

“No,” Myrcy said. “It hasn’t. Even if we fail today, we still got them together. They’re still together _at all_ , and they have like, real _actual_ love.”

“But we need the public display of flash mob affection, too, dammit!” Marg punched a pillow.

“Well, obvs.” Myrcy waved her hand in the air..

“So, what do we _do_?” Sansa insisted.

“I don’t think we can get hot Uncle Jaime to turn around. He’ll suspect something. So it has to be Cinnamon Roll. She might not have left yet.” Marg tapped her shin with her finger.

“We just call her and tell her not to go? Because of…fire! A gas leak! Dragons!” Myrcy suggested.

“She’ll just call hot Uncle Jaime. It has to be something she can’t ignore and has to act on _right away_.” Marg pulled out her phone and tapped some things.

“What are you looking for?” Sansa glanced over Marg’s shoulder.

Marg sighed. “Dammit. I was hoping Tarth had been attacked by pirates or something.”

Myrcy rolled over onto to her carpet-burned elbows and leapt up. “Tarth, you guys! Her father! He would totally be able to get her attention!”

“Her father? Has anyone ever even talked to him? Like, are we supposed to just call him and tell him our plan? I don’t think he’d understand.” Sansa sniffed.

“Uncle Jaime has talked to him a few times, I know. Plus, we don’t have to tell him the plan, we just have to say there’s a surprise and that he has to stop Brienne from going out tonight. It could totally work!” Myrcy scrambled for her own phone, hoping that Selwyn Tarth would be listed publicly. If not, they were screwed unless Sansa could hack into something.

“Anything?” Marg asked after a moment.

“Getting there…getting there…” Myrcy searched _everywhere_ , and finally, in the Tarth Sea Pages, whatever that was, a Selwyn Tarth was listed. Like, half the people on Tarth were named Tarth. It was weird. “I think I have it!”

“Call him, call him!” Sansa bounced on the bed.

Myrcy hit _call_. As she waited for Selwyn Tarth to pick up, she realized exactly how crazypants it was to phone her uncle’s girlfriend’s father right out of the blue. But anything for the OTP of true love and flash mobs. She would just have to make the sacrifice of her dignity.

There was a click, and then a severe, deep voice said, _“Tarth residence. This is Selwyn Tarth.”_

Myrcy froze. He sounded mean. If he were mean, he would think she was stupid and wouldn’t help with the plan, and they’d be screwed. _Oh no._

She cleared her throat. She swallowed. “Hello?” she whispered and promptly cringed.

Selwyn Tarth’s voice changed immediately, colored with some kind of jolly excitement. _“Is this the Girl Guides of the Stormlands? Excellent. I’d like to add two dozen more boxes of Lemon Tarts added to my order.”_

He wasn’t mean! Myrcy launched into the _plan_. “Mr. Tarth? This isn’t the Girl Guides, it’s Myrcella Lannister-Baratheon-Lannister, and my Uncle Jaime—”

_“Jaime Lannister! Of course, you’re his niece. Or child? What are you now? I’ve never quite understood I don’t think.”_

“I _am_ his niece, but he’s got custody of me and my little brother, so I guess…DadUncle? I’m not sure we know either.”

_“Well how about that…no matter, no matter. My Brienne speaks very highly of you, and of course she just gushes about how your uncle takes such good care of you. Delightful!”_

Myrcy was getting distracted by Mr. Tarth’s unexpected old-man friendliness, and just couldn’t see Brienne _gushing_ about anything really. “Mr. Tarth, my friend Sansa makes just the most _amazing_ lemon tarts in the entire whole world, and now I’m _definitely_ going to have her send you some, but we are _seriously_ in a massive rush, and we need a _huge_ favor!” Myrcy sucked in breath to avoid hyperventilating.

 _“Oh dear, it sounds quite serious.”_ Mr. Tarth hummed deep little noises that somehow managed to reiterate his comment.

“It totally is! Not like, _death_ serious or anything, but _so_ serious. Okay, so…” Myrcy sucked in another breath and expelled it in one long sentence. “Uncle Jaime is going to ask magical unicorn Brienne to marry him _tonight_ , like, in an hour or something, but he doesn’t know that we’ve all planned this super amazing thing for _tomorrow_ night that’s going to be _totes_ better, and Brienne deserves the absolute positive best, and all the things and really so does Uncle Jaime!” She inhaled again. “It should be epic, you know?”

Mr. Tarth was quiet for a moment, no humming or anything. And then, _“I don’t know your Uncle Jaime all that well yet, but anything quiet would seem to be against his inclination to shout effusive declarations of affection for my daughter at the world. He’s done it every time I’ve spoken with him. My Brienne would almost certainly prefer a more quiet methodology, so it would seem that Jaime has respected her personality in his plans. I should respect that, too.”_

Myrcy wanted to cry. The flash mob love tribute was going to be _so_ everything! “Okay, Mr. Tarth. Sorry—”

 _“Now wait just a minute there. I said I_ should _respect it, not that I was going to. I know very well that my Brienne never expected to settle down, particularly not with someone like Jaime Lannister, and if I know anything about my own daughter and your uncle, this is going to be the only proposal either of them ever have. I think epic is the only reasonable way to go.”_

“Oh my gods!” Myrcy shrieked. “You understand! I hoped you would understand!” She held the phone away from her head for a moment and stared at her friends. “He understands!”

_“So then, whatever can I do to prevent this travesty of a calm, quiet proposal in favor of whatever epic you have planned?”_

“Okay, so Brienne is never going to listen to us about not going to meet Uncle Jaime like, _right now_ , so we thought it _you_ called her and came up with some kind of reason that she has to like, _talk to you right now_ so she’ll miss dinner and the dumb quiet proposal, then maybe she and Uncle Jaime can have an epic proposal of magic and love?”

 _“Hmm, I’ll think of something.”_ More humming. So much humming.

“Think fast! Oh gods, sorry. I don’t want to yell at you!” Myrcy yelled.

_“Not to worry, my dear girl. My Brienne deserves the kind of proposal you uncle would actually want to give her, even if she hates it!”_

“Thank you thank you thank you! Okay, go call. We have like, no time!” Myrcy hung up, then thought about calling back to apologize for hanging up, the realized she might delay Mr. Tarth even more, so she’d maybe just text or something later. Wait, could you text a house phone? She didn’t even know.

She dropped the phone on the carpet and peered at Marg and Sansa.

“It’s done.” Sansa sighed.

“It’s out of our hands. It’s the best we can do.” Marg lay back on the back.

“We did our duty.” Myrcy nodded in satisfaction. “Now we wait.”

“Gods, you guys are so stupid. You should have just made that fat cat have a nervous breakdown or something.” Arya turned her jams up higher and scowled.

The girls looked at one another. It was too late for another pet emergency now.

* * *

 

Jaime sat at the table at the lovely little restaurant with crisp white tablecloths and warm red ambiance. He leaned on his elbows, his stump resting awkwardly against his neck since he couldn’t set his chin on it. He nearly lowered it to hide under the table, but Brienne always asked him not to do that.

Where _was_ she? Maybe she was just running late again, as she had for the cat show. But that was less than ten minutes. She was now nearing half an hour.

Should he text again? He wanted to, more than anything other than having her there with him. But he’d texted six times already. He _was_ clingy, dammit!

Had she gotten into a wreck? She’d taken a taxi rather than driven, because parking was difficult in that part of the city. Had the taxi driver wrecked the taxi? Was Brienne trapped inside a twisted chunk of crushed metal? He was going to kill that taxi driver.

He glanced at his phone. Nothing. Maybe she’d left a message on his house phone by accident. Maybe she’d forgotten to meet him at the restaurant and had gone to his house to pick him up. He called home.

Tommen picked up. _“This is Tommen. I can give messages, but I have nothing to say to anyone myself.”_

“Tom, has Brienne called? Or is she there?”

_“Oh hello, Uncle Jaime. No, neither.”_

Dammit. He sighed. “Okay, that’s…fine. Just checking.”

_“If she does call or come here, I will tell her that you are panicking.”_

“No, Tom! I’m not panicking! It’s fine, I promise.”

Tommen waited a moment to reply. _“If you say so, Uncle Jaime. I will not tell her you are panicking. Bye.”_

Thirty-five minutes late. He was certain Brienne had been plunged into the Blackwater by a speeding taxi going over the barrier on the bridge.

His phone rang. He fumbled for it so quickly that he knocked it off the table, banging his head as he picked it up again. “Hello! Hey! Are you okay? Were you in a fiery crash? Are you trapped under twisted metal? Are you bleeding?”

_“What? No, I’m fine. I’m not bleeding. But I can’t have dinner with you, I’m so sorry Jaime! I’m driving to Tarth. My father has fallen off the roof.”_

“What? Thank the gods you’re all right, but is Selwyn?”

_“He says he’s fine, but he bloody fell off the roof! What am I supposed to make of that? He called me and told me, and then he just wanted to talk for ages! He’s probably at the hospital and doesn’t want to tell me. I had to hang up on him just so I could get in my car.”_

“What can I do? I can meet you on the road. Where are you?”

 _“Jaime, it’s fine. I’m sure it will only take a few days to get him settled, unless he’s broken things. You can’t leave the children anyway. They need you.”_ She sighed deeply.

His gut clenched. “I need _you_.”

She was quiet for a second or two. _“Jaime, I know about your plans. I spoke to Olenna Tyrell last night, and I have something to give you when I get back. We just need to talk, okay?”_

Jaime felt the chill of northlands crawl up his spine. They needed to _talk_? She _knew_? She didn’t want to marry him. She knew about the proposal, and she didn’t want to say yes.

He’d known that. It was the point of a fake proposal followed by the giving of a house key. That plan was terrible. Why hadn’t he seen how terrible it was before?

He didn’t want to give a fake proposal. He wanted to give a real proposal, and he wanted her to say yes, and he wanted her to _want_ to marry him, and then they could live in the new house with six bedrooms until they were so old they’d look like prunes. Them, not the bedrooms. What did this _mean_ that she didn’t want to say yes?

_“Jaime? Are you there?”_

He wiped his stump across his brow to remove the sudden onslaught of cold sweat. “I’m here. I just…okay, we’ll talk. It’s fine. Go help your father.”

_“Thank you, Jaime. You’re the most…I just…I lo— bloody hells these drivers! I have to go before I do get into a fiery crash. Bye!”_

Jaime was desolate. They needed to _talk_. He thought she loved him. _What had Olenna said to her, that meddling old harpy!_

He took several deep breaths, downed half his goblet of water, and sat still. He thought. He tried to banish the image of Brienne in a fiery car crash, because even if she didn’t want to be with him forever, he’d still pull her out from a wreck no matter what. Unless he died of heartbreak, which seemed a distinct possibility.

But no, that couldn’t be right. Something was very, _very_ wrong. He sat, and he thought. She hardly ever said it, had taken months and months to say it the first time, but she _had_ told him that she loved him. She wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true, not her. She didn’t bandy affection about that way. He thought about the first time he’d kissed her at Olenna Tyrell’s party, how blue her eyes had looked and how smooth her freckled skin had been beneath that dress.

He thought about the way she’d slipped seamlessly into his chaotic life, how she was so willing to take Tommen places, and pick him up again, and handle Myrcy’s teenage insanity with such grace. He thought about the first time he’d told _her_ he loved her. It had been too soon, but he’d never cared about that. She’d been shocked and hadn’t spoken to him for two days, and then she’d snuck into his window and they’d made love.

He thought about the cat show. He thought about _after_ the cat show. He was never, ever getting rid of that desk no matter how badly Ser Pounce had scratched it. He thought about all those things, and the way she’d tried to make him pancakes, and he knew she loved him.

Maybe she just didn’t want to live together. Maybe he should stop considering scenarios of violent death and her leaving him and think about how things _really_ were. He could always just flip that new house.

He nodded to himself in satisfaction. He would have to work harder to avoid overwhelming her so much. It was his clinginess, and he’d have to stop. That was fine. He could do that, as long as she knew he loved her.

He picked up his phone and looked up flight times to Tarth. If he took the next flight, he’d arrive not long after Brienne did. It was a five-hour drive, and an hour-and-a-half flight. He made a reservation. _Good, it’s settled._

* * *

 

Myrcy clomped down the stairs to answer the insistent buzzing of the doorbell. Tommen wasn’t allowed to get it if they weren’t expecting someone, and Myrcy had no idea who could be visiting the house at that time of night. She peeked out the peephole. Nothing. Must be delivery.

She opened the door, prepared to see a cardboard box on the mat, but instead, Uncle Tyrion smiled up at her.

“Good evening to you, Myrcy. I’ve brought pizza.”

She frowned. “What are you doing here?”

Uncle Tyrion frowned. “Bloody hells, he was supposed to call.”

“Uncle Jaime?” She was so confused.

“Yes. I suppose he’s just lost in all things Brienne as usual. The fool.” Tyrion moved past her with the steaming pizza box.

“What?” Myrcy gaped after his, then wondered… “Tommen!”

Her brother’s quiet voice filtered out from the dining room. “Yes?”

“Did Uncle Jaime call?” She and Uncle Tyrion entered the living room to see Tommen reading to Ser Pounce.

“Yes.”

She threw her hands above her head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Tommen frowned. “He called, and he asked to talk to you, and then I said you were upstairs with the other ones, and then he said not to bother you, and then he said his phone was dying and that he was going to be in the air anyway, and then he said Uncle Tyrion was going to stay here tonight.”

Uncle Tyrion turned to her. “There you have it.”

What?!?! Uncle Jaime was in the _air_?!?!

“I don’t understand,” she finally admitted in a wail just like Sansa’s.

Uncle Tyrion went to set the pizza on the dining room table and took a seat next to Tommen. “I didn’t even get half of what he said, but apparently, Brienne’s father fell off a roof and she’s driven to see him, and Jaime didn’t want her to be alone, so he’s flying to Tarth to meet her. Hence my majestic presence in your quaint mid-century living quarters.”

Myrcy thought she might have turned into stone. She couldn’t move at all. Then she screamed, “No!!!!!”

Uncle Tyrion rolled his eyes. Tommen covered Ser Pounce’s ears.

A clatter on the stairs meant her friends were rushing to her aid. She needed them. She needed to maybe breathe, too.

Marg plowed into the living room. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Sansa was right behind her, prepared to weep.

Myrcy tried to control her heaving chest. “I’m frozen or something. I have greyscale!”

Uncle Tyrion peered at her. “You can’t have greyscale. You’ve been vaccinated.”

“No!!!!” She finally broke her stone-man stupor. “Oh gods, we’ve _so messed up_. Cinnamon has fled, and Cinnamon’s dad…Horseradish! Yeah, Horseradish went _way_ too far, and Cinnamon is gone, and M-o-M is going to be so angry with us! We have ruined everything. There will be no things. No to all the things. Oh my gods.”

“Where is M-o-M?!?!” Marg demanded.

“Going to Tarth!” Myrcy shrieked.

“What?!?! I can’t even!!!” Sansa wailed.

“M-o-M is going to keep us all locked up forever!” Myrcy brought her hands to cover her face in shame. “We’ve killed love!!!”

She heard Uncle Tyrion get up and move closer. “Myrcy, kindly inform me what’s going on in your head, because when you _freak out_ like this, you’ve definitely _done_ something. Better tell me before Jaime finds out.”

Myrcy dropped her damp hands to see Uncle Tyrion’s appraising stare. He would be disappointed in her, and Uncle Jaime would be _really_ disappointed. She’d just wanted an epic O-T-P proposal worthy of his love for magical Brienne, and instead, she’d totally messed up _everything_.

She looked at Tommen. He’d gone pale as he sometimes did for no apparent reason, and he clutched Ser Pounce to his chest. If she revealed the depth of her stupidity, her little brother would know how much she’d messed up, too, and _he’d_ be disappointed, and she couldn’t stand to have little baby Tommen upset like that. He couldn’t know how close they had been to having a _real_ family, and she’d ruined it. She’d ruined everything. She swallowed thickly.

“Okay, Uncle Tyrion. I’ll tell you everything,” she glanced at Tommen again, “but Tom, could you please go somewhere else. Please?”

Tommen looked mad. Like, _really_ mad. He got up silently and marched past them all to Uncle Jaime’s messy office. “I really wish people would stop sending me away, and also, I can spell very well thank you.”

Myrcy held her hands out behind her, and Marg took one and Sansa the other. They moved to the couch as one. She assumed Arya was still upstairs jamming or mooning over Gendry or something.

Uncle Tyrion took the chair across from them and had a really scared look on his face.

She sniffed and opened her mouth, and then the office door opened and Tommen stood there, even more ghastly pale, no longer angry, but with super wide eyes and a death grip on his cat. He turned to the stairs and ascended too quickly for anyone to reply, though she didn’t know what she would even say. His door slammed.

Uncle Tyrion sighed. “I’ll work on him later. For now…your turn.”

Myrcy sniffed, and swallowed, and began her tale.

* * *

 

Brienne’s knuckles were white as she drove, not because of nerves or bad weather, but because of anger. She couldn’t remember when she’d been _this_ angry. It was almost seven in the morning, and on top of her anger, she was bone-tired.

She wanted to murder her father. And Jaime. And Myrcy and Margaery and Sansa. And Olenna Tyrell. The only person she didn’t want to murder was Tommen. Ser Pounce could live as well. And Briann, the molting lizard.

Selwyn Tarth had heard more curses spew from his daughter’s mouth than any decent sailor could produce. She sighed, trying to calm herself. She’d pulled into her father’s driveway after one in the morning, not even knowing if he would be there or if he were in the hospital, and there he’d been, opening the front door to greet her with open arms and wide smile tinged with trepidation.

She’d punched him in the shoulder. How could he have scared her like that? Saying he’d fallen off a bloody _roof_!

And then he’d sat her down at the kitchen table which already had coffee and those overly sweet pre-packaged lemon tarts all laid out, and he’d explained how _Myrcella_ , of all people, had begged him to stall her from having dinner with Jaime so there could be some epic display when Jaime, _Jaime_ , proposed to her.

She’d punched her father in the shoulder again. She hoped it had hurt. He’d begged forgiveness since he’d quickly realized how claiming to have fallen off a roof might not have been the best stalling tactic. He’d said he only wanted her to have the _epic_ best, and that Jaime wanted to give her the _epic_ best but she wasn’t likely to accept it. Hence, roof falling.

Had her father _become_ a teenage girl in addition to complying in the insane scheme of one?

And Jaime! She was so mad. He’d given her absolutely no hint whatsoever that he was going to propose. Of all things, _propose_!

Her cheeks heated at the idea. He wanted to marry her. As in, _marry_ her. Olenna had said nothing about that. She’d just said that Jaime was going to buy a bigger house so they could move in together and have more space. She should have been warned! Because on the phone, she’d told him she _knew_ about his plans and that they needed to _talk_ and he’d absolutely take that as a negative. She knew him well. She knew he’d think she didn’t want to marry him.

So she was angry at herself most of all.

And she couldn’t get ahold of him to tell him as soon as possible. His phone seemed to be dead, which was odd, and it had been the middle of the night so she couldn’t just wake Tommen and Myrcy up to shout at everyone. Jaime had probably lain awake all night, brooding. Or what if…what if he’d turned his phone off on purpose because he didn’t want to talk to her? He _always_ wanted to talk to her! Olenna had said Brienne could tear his heart out…

She couldn’t do that! She didn’t want to do that! She could probably call the house if she pulled over. It would be worth waking people up.

She scanned the roadside for any sign of a stopping place, and she soon pulled into petrol station. Her fingers almost shook as she tapped the call button. Jaime still didn’t pick up. What if he were bleeding somewhere for some reason?

She called the house phone. She’d have to try Myrcy next.

A bleary voice answered. _“Hullo?”_ It was Myrcy.

“Myrcy, thank the gods, I need to talk to Jaime. Can you get—”

The voice perked up instantly. _“Brienne! Oh my gods oh my gods, I’m so sorry, we’re all so, so sorry—”_

This could go on forever, but Brienne found her anger at the poor girl evaporating. Myrcy always meant well, she just had really terrible ideas. “Myrcy, I forgive you, it’s all right, but I have to talk to Jaime. Please?”

There was sniffing. Oh no. _“Uncle Jaime isn’t here. I thought he’d be with you!”_

“What? How?”

“Oh my gods, he flew to Tarth last night after we accidentally made you go there!”

 “What!?!?!” Brienne sounded nearly as shrill as the girls usually did. “Why in the Seven did he fly to Tarth?”

 _“He’s Uncle Jaime,”_ Myrcy stated it as if it were all the explanation needed.

It was. Of course Jaime would decide the best course of action would be to fly off without a fully charged phone. He’d probably gone to the airport straight from the restaurant. But why wasn’t he at her father’s house when she’d arrived herself? It wasn’t a long flight. Had the rain taken the plane down? A vice gripped her chest at the idea of Jaime flailing in the water, one-handed and drowning. She wanted to panic.

“Myrcy, I didn’t see him, and his phone is off or something. When was his flight?” Brienne was prepared to turn right around and drive back to the island.

 _“I don’t know for sure. I—Oh my gods!”_ The girl screamed into the phone so loudly that Brienne hoped she wouldn’t go deaf.

“What’s wrong? Myrcy!” Brienne shouted back to make herself heard. Was Jaime on the news?

There was a complete meltdown happening. _“It’s Tommen! There’s a note! I just saw it on the dining table!”_

Oh gods, what was wrong with Tommen? “Myrcy, please!”

_“He’s run away! Oh gods this is all my fault, it totally is! He says he won’t go live with mom again, and he’s sorry he and his pets take up so much space in the house, and he swears he won’t be a bother, and nobody will even notice that he’s there, and if they do he’ll go to boarding school for cat owners, but he won’t live with mom!”_

Brienne remained absolutely still. She really had no idea what was going on or what had led Tommen to behave so out of character, but there was one particular thing concerning her beyond the entirety of Tommen’s apparent absence. “Myrcy, has your mother been in contact again?”

 _“No!_ ” The poor girl wailed. _“It’s totally my fault! We…we had code names, trying to get you guys to get married and be in love forever and stuff, and we called you Cinnamon because precious cinnamon roll, and we called Uncle Jaime M-o-M for Man of the Moment, and now I see how that was the stupidest thing in the whole stupid world! Tommen heard us talking, and he obviously thought we were saying that our mother was coming back! Oh no!”_

Brienne took a cleansing breath and rubbed her eyes. She couldn’t go back for Jaime now, she had to help find Tommen. “Myrcy, I’m on my way. I’m about an hour from the city. Are you alone?”

_“Uncle Tyrion is here, but he’s still asleep. Oh my gods, I have to tell him!”_

“It’s going to be okay, Myrcy. Take a deep breath, wake Tyrion, and he’ll take care of things until I get there. Get yourself dressed and think of places where Tom might have gone, okay? Send Tyrion to look in those places, and you stay at the house.”

The sound of sniffing went on for a while until Myrcy could respond. _“Okay. I’m so sorry!”_

“It’s all right, Myrcy, I promise.” Brienne’s mind raced trying to put herself into the mind of a frightened nine-year-old boy. What would he take with him? She smiled to herself. “Myrcy, is Ser Pounce gone, too? And Briann the Lizard?”

_“Oh my gods, that’s brill! I’ll check, but he wouldn’t go anywhere without the cat at least.”_

“See? We already have something. He couldn’t have gotten far with a cat carrier. Go tell Tyrion, and I’m getting back on the road. We’ll find him, Myrcy.”

 _“Okay. I believe you. You always know everything!”_ Myrcy hung up before Brienne could object.

She pulled back onto the road and started speeding. She had to calm herself down. Jaime was not drowning somewhere in the sea. His plane was probably just delayed. It happened probably half the time on the way to Tarth. That’s why she drove. She’d call her father again once she could stop, to tell him to find Jaime. She had to focus on Tommen.

This was what Jaime had faced every day since he’d become a guardian. Well, not the running away part, but certainly the pressure of watching out for his wards and trying to make the right decisions. He might think he had no idea what he was doing, but she felt a bloom of pride deep in her chest for his accomplishment. He loved those kids, had put his whole life on hold for them…and he wanted _her_ to be a part of that. It wasn’t a light thing. He was so concerned with being a good example for Myrcy and Tom, he would never ask her to be a part of their lives if he didn’t think she would be good for them, too.

She’d never pictured herself in a serious relationship, living in a suburban house with a garden, and children, and a cat, and a lizard. _Married_. If she were honest, she’d pictured loneliness and a difficult path of pursuing her own ambitions completely on her own. Maybe she’d have an industrial loft off the Silk Road. Her stories would be her legacy.

When this was all over and Tommen were safe, and she’d told Jaime what she wanted and how she felt and didn’t stutter all over the place about it, she was going to unwrap that box with the nicely-tied bow for the second time, and she was going to take out one of the stacks of paper, the one that represented the original chapter of her book where Quil died, and she was going to shred it. She was going to give Jaime the real final chapter, the one where Quil lived, and she would wait for it to be published and face the inevitable derision for not being _edgy_ and giving in to the fairytale, and she didn’t think she’d care one bit.

She felt a deep sense of peace about it. _Finally_. She knew it was right. Maybe she’d add a bit of maiming for flavor, but nobody was going to die until they were old and gray. She was going to let love win for once.

* * *

 

Jaime’s nice gray suit was still damp from tarmac rain, and he’d left the jacket at Selwyn’s by accident, and he was more exhausted than he could even remember. He’d done the unthinkable. He’d called his father for help.

There had been no other choice. He’d thought flying to Tarth would be fastest, so he could be with Brienne and help with Selwyn, and instead, he’d been delayed half an hour, then stuck on the runway for _another_ hour, then forced to wait yet _another_ hour for a taxi willing to take him to Selwyn’s at four in the morning.

And the old codger hadn’t even fallen off his roof! Jaime could barely believe the tale he’d been told. Myrcella was going to be really, truly, terrible trouble once this was all over, but right now, he only had the energy to think about Tommen. He’d known something had been bothering the boy the last week or so, but how was he supposed to realize it was _serious_? The court would never grant him adoption if it knew Tommen had run away.

Assuming he was found.

Of course he’d be found. He _would_.

He’d spent a good three hours with Selwyn Tarth, bemoaning his existence and listening to the man’s effusive apologies. It wasn’t his fault. Myrcy had a certain way of steamrolling people into compliance with her talk of magical epic things and unicorns of beauty and things that made people dead. He’d waited until he thought Brienne would have returned to the city and had tried calling her just after seven, but no reply. Selwyn had driven him back to the airport to catch the nine o’clock flight. Which had been canceled.

It was there he’d learned of Tommen’s disappearance after using a bloody _payphone_ to call home. And he learned Brienne had spoken to Myrcy, and that Selwyn had _also_ spoken to Myrcy because Brienne had called Selwyn when he’d been driving Jaime, and that she was worried about Jaime’s whereabouts, and that Myrcy was the only one home as Brienne, Tyrion, Margaery, Margaery’s driver Osney, Sansa, Arya, Loras, Renly, and that Gendry boy were all out searching for Tommen.

In fact, there were two hundred others also searching for Tommen. Myrcy’s steamrolling wasn’t always a negative. He’d been unaware of the existence of a University of King’s Landing senior acapella flash mob in progress, but apparently, every single…mobber, had been corralled into service. Then, he’d called the one person he knew who could get him to King’s Landing and mobilize a force to find Tommen. Jaime had called his father.

If that bloody boy could hide after all this…he was going to strangle Tommen. Seven keep him safe. He hoped he could finally get ahold of Brienne once he was on the ground and could use Tyrion’s phone to call her. His brother was waiting for him below.

Jaime’s stomach lurched as the Lannister helicopter descended onto the roof of the Lannister tower in the middle of a city block owned by the Lannisters. He’d never hear the end of it from Tywin, how the Lannister money had allowed Jaime to return to the city as quickly as possible, how the Lannister influence could demand that the KLPD aid in the search for a boy missing only a few hours rather than forty-eight. How Jaime was overwhelmed by his life choices and would certainly return to the fold sooner rather than later.

Tywin didn’t understand that Jaime simply needed Brienne, and that once this was all settled, he was never letting her out of sight, _ever_ again. Because he was clingy. Because she was everything.

As soon as the helicopter landed, he hopped out and darted for the elevator to join the search.

* * *

 

Brienne paced back and forth along Jaime’s front hall. All the places Myrcy had thought of had been checked. Tommen’s school had been checked. His Four-H center, his leader’s house, Tywin’s house, the veterinarian’s, the groomer’s, the pet store, the _other_ pet store…all had been checked. They’d even searched bloody _Lancel’s_ weird commune, and nobody, not even sweet Tommen, liked Lancel.

She’d talked to her father again. Jaime had been found, and she’d released a breath that nearly turned into a sob, and he’d been gone again so she hadn’t talked to him. It was becoming a physical pain not to talk to him. He was out there in the city, searching, and she _still_ couldn’t manage to talk to him! He’d been calling from Tyrion’s phone, and she’d been calling back, but they kept missing each other as they searched for Tommen. Bloody boy! Bless him.

So she was at Jaime’s house alone, because Myrcy had become hysterical and insisted on checking her own school since that’s where Briann the Lizard had come from. The other girls had taken her. It was now more of a city scouring than a search, since there was no focal point.

Brienne had Tommen’s note crumpled between her fingers. She’d read it twenty times. He was a bright boy, not prone to outbursts, so it had to have been something very serious to provoke him to leaving. And he was nine, not four or five. He had a bit of rationality. It was clear he was terrified of living with Cersei, but as the only mention of her had been an accidental reference from Myrcella, wherever could the boy have gotten the idea that he’d be sent off like that?

She paced some more. Myrcy had said he’d gone pale the night before, that he’d gone into Jaime’s office and then come out clearly upset, angry even. Myrcy said she’d looked in the office but hasn’t seen any reason to cause Tommen’s reaction.

But Myrcy was a teenager, and upset as well. Maybe she’d missed something. Brienne moved into the office and was immediately overcome with memories of the desk. She couldn’t think about that. It wasn’t appropriate to think about the way Jaime had looked at her that night, not when Tommen was missing.

There was a stack of paper’s on the desk that hadn’t been there when…she’d last come there. _Been_ there. She shook her head.

She picked up the stack and felt her brows rise. They were adoption papers with Tommen’s name on them, and Jaime’s. He hadn’t told about this, but they were dated only a few days before. There hadn’t been time. He’d probably meant to tell her the night before at the restaurant, she was sure.

 _It was the smart thing,_ she thought. Cersei was unpredictable. So if Jaime were trying to _prevent_ Tommen from ever having to live with Cersei again, how could the boy think the opposite?

Because he was nine. He must have seen the papers when he’d been in the office. A nine-year-old couldn’t be expected to understand the language of legal documents, not even a smart nine-year-old, and since Myrcy had already used her foolish codename and had planted the seed of Cersei in Tommen’s mind, it wasn’t unreasonable to think Tommen might believe the papers were to transfer custody _back_ to Cersei rather than away from her.

The other papers were escrow documents for Jaime’s new house. There was a tiny little paw print on them. Tommen had seen them, too. Brienne sighed, thinking of Tommen’s note. The poor boy had thought Jaime wanted more space, had bought a house without telling anyone, had drawn up adoption papers…Tommen thought he was getting in the way. _Taking up too much space_.

Brienne thought every single member of that family needed communication lessons. Probably, her, as well, but then she’d _be_ a part of that family if this mess could only get cleared away. They were all completely mad. She smiled to herself.

So where would Tommen go? He wouldn’t wander without a destination, Brienne was certain. He’s written in his note that no one would even notice he was _there_ , so she just had to figure out…

She knew. She knew where he’d gone. She tore the top piece of paper from one of the stacks and ran out to her car, hitting the call button on her phone yet again.  

  

 


	8. In Which There is a Rescue, a Near Miss, and a Conscious Coupling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day late and many dollars short. Also, Mikki told me to split this AGAIN because it's turned into a monstrosity only Godzilla could tackle. Which means that Mikki, having beta'd this entire thing in ONE week, is Godzilla, in the best possible way of course ;-) All hail Mikki. 
> 
> The final chapter will post tomorrow, and it's written and beta'd, so no more delays. I need wine and a hand massage.

 

Brienne pulled into the driveway of the address listed on Jaime’s papers, the house he’d bought for his family. The house he’d bought for her. Any other man could never get away with deciding to buy a _house_ spur of the moment, without consulting his partner or anybody else. Any other man would never even consider doing such a thing, but other men weren’t like Jaime Lannister. She’d known she’d love the house when Olenna first mentioned Jaime’s plans, because he would choose perfectly. He’d know what she might want, what she needed, better than she would.

And the house was beautiful. It was ridiculously large, but then there would be quite a few of them living there, Jaime, her, Myrcy, Tommen, the menagerie of pets Tommen would collect. She wanted to add _maybe more in the future,_ but she refused even to think about that in the sanctuary of her own mind.

She saw a little gate left open on one side of the house. She’d left a message for Jaime that she thought she had a lead, but she hadn’t told him where. She was afraid he’d rush over in some loud, dramatic way, like a parachute from a biplane, and frighten Tommen even more, or make him run off again if the boy didn’t want to talk to Jaime. Or worse, the old codger Tywin Lannister himself could _intervene_ and send a squad of police to reclaim Tommen by force. She could do this herself. She could handle this.

She climbed out of the car and didn’t even bother to lock it as she moved to the side gate. It was a good neighborhood, because Jaime.

She followed a little stone path along the side and into a back garden lined with mature trees. Half was grass and half a sunny veranda with a small pool on one side. One of the double doors leading from the house to the veranda was open.

It had to be Tommen, but she readied herself to kick box just in case, and stepped carefully inside. The door led to a huge kitchen that no one soon to move in would ever use. There was an enormous refrigerator on one side, and she spotted a yellow sticky note on it. She moved closer to read it. _Big enough for takeout/pizza boxes_ , was written in Jaime’s scribbly hand.

She chuckled and turned away, noticing an empty packet of apple chips in the sink. Tommen was a very neat boy, and if there were no garbage can yet in place, he _would_ just put his rubbish in the sink. She’d been right.

He’d probably heard her car in the driveway, but since he hadn’t appeared, she decided to take the first step. “Tommen?” she called, his name echoing in the empty house. “It’s Brienne. I know you’re here, and I’m alone.”

She moved from the kitchen into a wide hallway, past what looked like an open dining room, and then another, smaller room with glass doors. There was another sticky note. _Brienne’s office._

She wished she had time to think about that, to look inside and see the space he’d chosen for her. But Tommen was the priority now.

“Tom? Are you upstairs?” she called again. What if he’d already gone somewhere else?

She started toward the staircase to explore what she thought was the second of three floors.

“Up here,” the boy’s voice filtered down, quiet and shaky.

Relief flooded her. She ran up the stairs three at a time and paused to decide which way to proceed down the hall. Sticky notes were on every door. She knew the far right end of the hall would lead to _their_ room since it was as far as one could get from the cluster of others. Because Jaime.

So she turned left. She didn’t think Jaime would place Tommen on the third floor. As she assumed, one of the doors was half open, and its sticky note read _Tom’s Room (and cat, and lizard)._

She pushed the door all the way open. Tommen sat in a corner of the large space, on top of a sleeping bag. Briann the Lizard’s cage rested close by, and Ser Pounce seemed to be snoring, though Brienne couldn’t quite understand how any creature could be comfortable in a hanging position. The beast was strapped to Tommen’s chest in what Brienne thought was a Baby Tormund harness. She caught trails of drying tears on Tom’s cheeks, glistening in the sun as it flooded in through the window.

The boy sighed deeply. “Is everyone very mad?”

Brienne halted several feet away. “Everyone is very worried.”

He looked far, far up at her with cheeks nearly as red as her blush usually was. “I made a mistake.”

“We all make mistakes.” She smiled gently. “Can I sit by you?”

He nodded and moved Briann the Lizard to make room.

Once she’d situated herself on the floor, leaning against the wall with her legs drawn up, she turned to look at the boy. “I know why you’re worried, but you don’t have to live with your mother.”

He sighed again, trying so hard to be stoic. “I know.”

Brienne glanced at the door. “Because of the note?”

Tommen nodded, his cheeks reddening even more. “I thought…Uncle Jaime said he needed more space, that the house was too small. I was afraid I had too many pets because of Briann, and I can’t get rid of my pets. But he said they were little and it would have to be something bigger. I thought…” he inhaled and his voice shook, “I thought he meant me.”

“He would never mean you,” Brienne interrupted.

“I…I just got scared.” The boy’s shoulders trembled a little.

Brienne put her arm around him. “Everyone gets scared.”

“It was stupid.”

“No, it wasn’t. I promise,” she said.

He looked up at her with such innocent eyes. “Yes, it was. I was not behaving rationally, you know.”

She wanted to laugh, but that would be the worst possible thing to do. “No one, not even the smartest person, can be rational all the time.”

“I should have understood the clues better. It’s all my fault.”

She squeezed his shoulders tighter. “Tommen, it’s not. Things have been a bit mad lately, haven’t they? And Jaime does tend to launch into his plans too abruptly for anyone to follow what he’s doing and why he’s doing it until it’s done. Even adults can forget to check in with people when they need to. But I promise you, your uncle would _never_ forget about _you_ , and he would never let you live in a bad environment, ever again. He loves you.”

Tommen sniffed. “I just got scared that he was going to marry you and you’d have new babies and there wouldn’t be room for me. And Myrcy is leaving, and I’m going to be alone.”

Brienne wasn’t sure _what_ was going on with Myrcy, but she could see that the poor overwhelmed girl was definitely not ready to launch herself in adulthood completely on her own. It was going to be a slow transition. “Tom, your sister is still going to be around. I have a feeling it will be quite a lot. She won’t leave you alone, because she loves you, too.”

He considered that and then looked up at her. “Why does Uncle Jaime have adoption papers?”

It wasn’t really her right to tell him about Jaime’s plans. She hadn’t even discussed them with _Jaime_ yet, but she couldn’t leave the boy hanging. “He wants to adopt _you_. He has custody, which means he’s officially in charge of you, but there is a slight possibility that your mother could cause trouble if she decides she wants to be in charge of you herself. Jaime doesn’t want to allow that, ever, so he’s going to try to adopt you. That means no one else can be in charge of you until you’re eighteen. But even then, he wants you, and Myrcy, to be in his life forever. You’re his family.”

He rested his head back on her arm. “Are you going to adopt me, too?”

The instant flood of panic and warmth that filled her gut felt like it would choke her.

He saw, but he strangely didn’t seem disturbed. “I didn’t mean to imply that you would be my mother. I just meant…because you’d be here. In case Uncle Jaime was in a coma or something.”

Brienne burst out before she could stop herself. “We do not say anything about Jaime being in a coma or bleeding or in a fiery crash, _ever_ , okay?”

“Okay.”

She took a deep breath and squeezed his shoulder. “That was _me_ not being rational.” Tommen’s lip quirked up as she went on. “But…if we all decide to live here and be…and be a family. _All_ of us, then I suppose you would need a second guardian. It would be prudent. If Jaime wants that, and you want that, then I would do it. I maybe love you, too.”

Tommen smiled a shy little boy smile and brushed his face against Ser Pounce’s head. The beast snored louder. “Uncle Jaime is going to be so angry with me.”

“Uncle Jaime is going to be crazy with relief.” She rested her cheek on his head. “And maybe a little angry later on, but it won’t last.”

“Well,” he sighed, “I did make a pretty bad mistake. How did you know I was here?”

She lifted her head to stare down at him. “Your note. You wrote that we wouldn’t even notice you, so I thought you might have wanted to prove that you could live here without taking up too much space. Was I right?”

Tommen nodded like a bobblehead. “Yes! I shouldn’t be surprised. I think you understand me and Ser Pounce pretty well.”

That was quite the compliment from a nine-year-old. “I try.” She smiled. “How did you get in here anyway?”

Tommen fished a crumbled stick note from his pocket. “It was on the papers in Uncle Jaime’s office.”

She read the note. _Security code 0428._

It was her birthday. Because Jaime.

* * *

 

“Where the hells _is_ she?” Jaime yelled at the crowd in his living room.

“Calm down, she said she had a lead. Let her follow it.” Tyrion used his commanding voice that actually worked quite well. Just not on Jaime.

He paced back and forth, sick with worry over Tommen and the slightly less dire yet somehow still consuming need to just see Brienne’s face.

“You are behaving irrationally. I expect—”

Jaime halted instantly, in front of Tywin Lannister’s severe form. “Go dip your expectations in gold and fuck them.”

A collective gasp floated from the couch where the three…no, four girls sat in a row. He should care about his language, but he didn’t have the energy.

“I would reconsider that request, Jaime.” Tywin frowned until the corners of his mouth nearly met his jawline.

Jaime threw his hands up, his stump purposefully in Tywin’s face. His father thought the stump was a blight on Lannister kind. “I don’t give two sunken shits what you request. You act as if assisting in a hunt for your own _grandson_ is some kind of favor which requires future repayment. He is _family_. That’s supposed to mean something, even to you.”

Jaime paced away, not able to stand looking at his father for another second.

“That woman has changed you,” Tywin said lazily in his particular threatening drawl.

Jaime laughed. “Yes, she has. Something I’m extraordinarily grateful for. And if you must address her at all, her name is Brienne, and you will call her by it or leave this house.”

“Don’t speak to your—”

Jaime confronted Tywin for the second time. The final time, if the gods were at all good. “This is _my_ house, paid for with _my_ money. Not a silver stag of it came from you. You will leave when you’re told to leave since you can’t seem to muster any visible concern for your own blood. And if you someday decide to be _human_ and remember what our family name really means, you will be civil to _that woman_ since I’m very shortly going to marry her. You have no say, your opinion means nothing.” Jaime ignored the collective gasp from the couch.

Tywin smiled. It wasn’t even evil. Or maybe a little bit evil, but not fully. “I’ve been waiting for you to become strong again.”

Jaime leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Seven bloody hells!”

Tyrion’s phone rang from Jaime’s pocket. He nearly dropped it _again_ as he fumbled for it. Somebody really needed to invent a stump prosthetic that held a phone.

A really terrible photo of Brienne lit up the screen. He’d never seen anything better in his life. “Hello? Where are you? Did you find Tommen? Is anyone bleeding?”

Her voice was beauty and light and balm to his soul. _“I found him! Jaime, I have him. He’s safe, and no one is bleeding. Everything is going to be okay.”_

Of course it would. Of course. Because Brienne.

He leaned away from the phone for a second, addressing the room. “He’s safe.”

Tywin nodded, betraying nothing. Tyrion fell back into a chair and sighed. Myrcy started to bawl as her friends held her. Arya Stark gave a thumbs up. Why was she even there?

He felt the corners of his eyes tighten. He barely cried in his entire life, but he might just break down there and then. He tried to hold it together. “Let me talk to him.”

 _“He’s very upset.”_ She lowered her voice to a whisper. _“Please try not to let him hear that you’re angry. Wait for that, okay?”_

“I’m not even angry right now. I just want to talk.” It was the surprising truth. He heard her hand the phone off.

A very thin, hesitant voice answered. _“Hello Uncle Jaime. I am very sorry to have caused catastrophe and I will never do so again.”_

“I don’t care, Tom, I really don’t care! I was so worried. Are you all right?”

_“Yes. Since you do not like assigning punishments, I will endeavor to devise one worthy of my severe mistake. A grounding of three days will certainly not be enough.”_

“Tom, really. I just want to see you. I’m so sorry there’s been such terrible misunderstanding.”

_“Brienne is bringing me back. I believe she is the best. Of what, I don’t know, but Myrcy says that a lot.”_

Jaime chuckled a choked sort of chuckle, half real mirth and half grave relief. “She _is_ the best. Come home. Uncle Tyrion will get pizza.”

 _“Okay. Here’s Brienne._ ”

The phone transferred hands again. He glanced over to make sure Myrcy was all right, but she was still wrapped up by her friends. Margaery Tyrell was staring at him with a bizarre look of calculation.

His attention returned to the phone.

_“Jaime? I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. I wanted to be sure.”_

“It’s fine. I just…you’re the best.”

_“I saw the house. Tommen went there. It’s beautiful. Really. I love it.”_

“Are you driving? You shouldn’t be on the phone while driving.”Fiery crashes, bleeding…

_“We’re in a taxi. Briann the Lizard vomited on my seat. A lot.”_

“I’m buying you three new cars. No argument.”

_“Of course I’m arguing. When we get there, and then we’ve really got to talk about…all the things.”_

“I know. But I don’t care about all the things.” The couch gasped again. He took a deep breath, he paused a moment. “Brienne, in my pocket is a box, and in the box is a—”

Margaery Tyrell leapt up from the couch, over the coffee table, and landed in from of him like a gymnast. She smacked the phone right out of his hand.

“Margaery Tyrell!” He shouted.

The room was silent.

The junior harridan picked up the phone and yelled into it. “Brienne, you are magic and wonder and all the things, and guess what? You’re like, on the other side of the whole city, and hot Uncle Jaime can see you and Tommen faster if you meet in the middle, in Baelor’s Square, maybe? Meet. In. The. Middle. It makes sense.”

Jaime lunged for the phone and almost tripped over Sansa Stark’s outstretched legs.

Margaery nodded. “We’ll get him there. Like, _yesterday_! ‘K bye!” She hit _end call_ before he could stop her.

He stood there, gaping.

She shrugged. “If you meet in the middle, you could shave off, like, twenty minutes. Maybe even thirty.”

He’d have to deal with this. He _would_ , but at the moment he thought his heart might need those extra twenty or thirty minutes.

“We need cars,” he conceded.

“My driver is outside,” Margaery said.

“I’ve had a taxi waiting for an hour,” Tyrion added.

Jaime turned to dart out the door without another word. He headed straight for the taxi, throwing the rear door open and cramming himself into the back seat. Tyrion quickly joined him.

Their father was right behind. His lifted his foot disdainfully, as if to climb into the taxi.

Both Jaime and Tyrion shouted, at the same time, “No!” and Tyrion pulled the door shut. Tywin was left standing on the curb with a furious scowl. Helicopter or no helicopter, Jaime didn’t owe him two sunken shits.

He glanced out the back to make sure Myrcy had followed. He should have waited for her, but he saw her climb into the Tyrell car with the others. As much as Margaery Tyrell was a harpy just like her grandmother, he knew she would take care of Myrcy, just as Sansa would. Those girls could be useful, though they might need to be incarcerated for a good long while just to knock some sense into them.

Tommen was found. Nobody was bleeding. And everything was going to be okay. _Brienne._ He leaned against the taxi seat and closed his eyes.

* * *

 

 

In the back of the Tyrell car, Margaery sat still for approximately ten seconds, as advised by Grandmother in situations of crisis. She tried to count to ten and made it to six. _Fuck it_. Time for action.

It had probably broken some sort of rulebook for adulthood to smack hot Uncle Jaime’s phone away, but as she’d sat on the couch listening to half the tale of Magical Cinnamon Roll’s Majestic Rescue of a Poor Young Lad and Neurotic Cat and Bulimic Lizard, she _knew_ she could everything back on track. She _knew_. She absolutely could _not_ allow hot Uncle Jaime to propose over a phone call with all the nerves about Tommen still making everyone weird. A proposal over a _phone_ was _not_ epic.

Margaery assessed the situation.

Step one: Get hot Uncle Jaime and Magical Cinnamon Roll to Baelor’s Square.

Progress: Happening.

Step two: Get the flash mob to the Square in time.

She pulled out her phone and frantically texted Loras and Renly and Willas and Gendry. They’d all been out searching and didn’t know Tommen had been found. She announced it on blast and commanded that the flash mob performance take place in like, twenty minutes. It could work. It _had_ to work.

Progress: Happening.

Step three: Manipulate all parties involved into the creation of an Epic Proposal of True Love and Magic and Burning Lust fit for the only O-T-P that would ever matter.

Progress: Happening.

She nodded to herself. This plan would work. It _had_ to. For reasons. _All_ the reasons.

Osney eased them down the street, following the taxi where the Lannister bros were holed up. The Tyrell limo passed that scary old Lannister, the old guy Grandmother absolutely loathed and that hot Uncle Jaime had cursed at. He stood on the curb sneering after them. Whevs. They didn’t need him for epic true love.

As they rounded a corner, she spotted a boy running from the opposite direction. _Gendry._  He was so dumb.

She lowered the window. “Hey shop boy!”

From the other seat, Arya whispered, “Gendry” like a unicorn had shown up or something. Margaery rolled her eyes.

Gendry stopped for second, peering at the car as if he’d never seen one before, and then he started running again, right up to them.

“Osney, slow down a second!” she called over the intercom.

_“We’ll lose the taxi, Miss.”_

_Ugh_! “Never mind then!”

She leaned out the window. “Gendry, jump in!”

Gendry burst into top speed as she leaned back. “Watch out, everyone!”

Gendry dove in through the window like a pro swimmer. He _did_ have some nice biceps.

He got stuck at the waist. Did he have a huge package or something? She was almost sorry she’d probably never know.

He was super out of breath. “Hey. How am I gonna get in? I don’t want me legs to get chopped off or something.”

“Seven hells, tit squad, do something!” Arya shrieked.

Myrcy rose from the cradle of Sansa’s arms, still totally wiped out, but they both grabbed on to Gendry’s wrists and pulled. Arya threw her arms around his neck and pulled. Margaery threaded her fingers through his front belt loop and pulled. She might have groped a little, just to see.

They all pulled. Gendry’s legs his a stop sign. “Ow!”

All at once, he tumbled inside, landing on top of Arya on the car’s floor. They stared at each other with wide eyes and open mouths. Then Arya smacked him over and over and pushed him off.

“Idiot stupid ass, I hate you!”

“No you don’t.” He shrugged.

“I do, I do!”

“Arya! Oh my gods,” Sansa wailed.

“No time right now!” Marg shouted, trying to get everyone to focus on what was truly important. _Love_. “We’ve got to get that flash mob back on track!”

Myrcy perked up. “You still think we can get our epic proposal of true love forever?!?!”

Marg felt like, _so_ adult. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Oh my gods!” Sansa shrieked.

“What flash mob?” Gendry remained on the floor with his elbows on his folded knees.

Margaery rolled her eyes. “I totally told you about it! You listen to nothing!”

“You say a lot of stuff.” Gendry shrugged.

“Ugh! My brother and hundreds of other people are going to do an acappella flash mob in Baelor’s Square! They’re supposed to start in like, fifteen minutes or something, but they all went off to look for Tommen. You were supposed to be there to record it.”

“Baelor’s Square? There’s a marching band show there right now.” Gendry shrugged.

“What?!?!” three of the four girls screamed.

“Yeah. I got a buddy in band. They’re doing a performance of folk songs or something.” Gendry shrugged. And winked at Arya. She smacked him.

Margaery had _so_ much to do, but she really had to get this out of the way. “Okay, first, Gendry could you text your… _buddy_ , and see if he can just _stall_ or something, and then when the mob comes in, stop playing like it was all planned to begin with? Because the mob _has_ to happen. It’s _crucial_.”

“Yeah, I can text.” He texted. They waited. Gendry looked up. “He says sure.”

Marg sighed until her chest hurt. “Excellent. And you still have to film. The cameras are in the boot. And you, _Arya_ , is our deal still on?”

Arya jerked her head to stare at Marg. She nodded manically.

Marg nodded. “You film, too.” She turned to Gendry. “Gendry, did you date me to make Arya jealous?”

Gendry went pale. He stared at his boots. He picked at his collar. “Wut?”

Marg channeled Grandmother. She grabbed his chin and made him look at her. “Don’t play coy with me, _boy_.”

“Uh, I, uh…mebbe.”

“What?!?” Arya shouted. “Dumbass!”

Marg dropped his chin, and he looked back at his boots. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt nobody. I just—you ran off when I asked you out, and I thought, mebbe you would say yes if I had a gf or something. I dunno.” He shrugged.

“That’s so totally stupid! How dare you toy with my sister!” Sansa shouted.

“What?!?!” Arya shrieked, her head jerking between looking at Gendry and looking at Sansa.

Margaery was _so_ over it. “Gendry, I’m breaking up with you. You aren’t man enough for me. I want to have good, epic love sex, and you don’t want to have sex at all. Like, with _me_! There’s something wrong with you, I’m sure. So I’m giving you to Arya, because I’m very generous.”

“Wut?” Gendry looked wary, like a cornered animal.

Arya folded herself into a ball on the car seat and hid her face.

“Really, people!” Marg rolled her eyes as far up as they would go. “Gendry, you asked Arya out, but you clearly shocked her or something and then didn’t even try again. Stupid! And Arya, you freaked out and didn’t even answer him at all. Stupid! You can be perfectly stupid together, so just get this over with!”

Gendry tugged on his collar. “Um, is that true? Like, you did want to go to the weapon museum with me?”

Arya looked furious as her head popped up. “Um _yeah_. I wanted to learn to fight with swords and everything. You weren’t paying attention at _all_.”

“I’m paying attention _now_!” Gendry shouted and then immediately shut up.

“Are you really?” Arya shouted.

“Yeah,” Gendry whispered.

Arya started braiding a strand of hair so rapidly Marg could barely see the movements. “Okay. Good. Yeah.”

“What you doin’?” Gendry asked, his brow seriously furrowed.

“Nothing!” Arya shrieked, dropping the braid and staring out the window.

“Gods!” Marg screamed.

She pushed Arya off the car seat and onto the floor where she landed half in Gendry’s lap. He caught her. They stared at each other. Arya smacked him on the shoulder.

“What you do that for!” he shouted.

“’Cause you’re a dumbass!” she shouted.

He snogged her. Like, _real good_. He hadn’t snogged Marg like that! She felt extremely bitter about it. She crossed her arms over her chest. Gendry _was_ a dumbass.

Arya pulled back and smacked him. “Gods, you entitled prick! What makes you think you can just snog your way out of me being mad at you being a dumbass!” 

Gendry winked at her. “I snog real good.”

Arya smacked him. She snogged him back and bit his lip.

“I think I’m in love,” Gendry said looking absolutely shocked.

“Well, you should be, dumbass. I like swords, too.” Arya went back to snogging.

Marg sighed. One more thing settled. Things were looking up. Now she just had to make sure hot Uncle Jaime and Magical Unicorn Brienne both got to Baelor’s Square, that the flashmob started on time, that the stupid marching band didn’t ruin everything, and that the most epic proposal of epic proposals happened and got recorded for O-T-P posterity. Everything was right on track. Absolutely _nothing_ could go wrong. 

 


	9. In Which There is Chaos, a Proposal, and an Epic Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Iz ded on floor*
> 
> Seriously. This was madness. I applaud anyone who read it all this week. I don't even know how you did managed! And Mikki/ikkiM/cheesywhizzy/chezwhiz/whatever deserves absolute cases of whichever vintage white wine she likes best, because she beta'd this whole thing on short notice every single frickin' day, on top of all the other fics she beta'd, AND gave us all SO MUCH FIC of her own making! I bow down to the captain. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the final chapter :-)

 

Brienne’s taxi pulled to a stop on one of the side streets leading to Baelor’s Square. This was absurd. She never should have agreed to meet Jaime there rather than at the house, but she’d just wanted to see him so badly! Too late to change her mind now, since he was on his way.

She kept a tight hold on Tommen’s hand, helping him out of the backseat as he carried Briann the Lizard’s cage.

“Are you all right?” she asked, even though she was the one feeling nervous, and she wasn’t even sure why.

Tommen contemplated for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. I will accept due consequence, and I will try never to misunderstand important things again.”

She sighed. She’d done her best, but she’d need Jaime to deal with the boy’s repetitive insistence that he’d never again make a mistake. She had no idea how to handle that. She walked them into the Square, and if she’d thought this meeting place might be a mistake before, she was now absolutely certain it had been one of the worst decisions she could possibly have made. Why had she ever listened to Margaery Tyrell? The girl did have a way of convincing people to do things, stupid things. Just like her harridan grandmother. Oh gods, there would be two of them!

On one side of the Square, a screen had been lowered over the National Museum of Art’s façade, and on the steps was arranged a full marching band playing _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_.

On the other side, a large group of protesters was gathered, holding posters and chanting, “Recall Baelish!” and “Take axes to taxes!”

Brienne ducked down to shout in Tommen’s ear over the din, “Stay close with Ser Pounce and Briann the Lizard, okay? We have to find Jaime.”

Tommen nodded and hugged his animals tighter.

She surveyed the chaos and decided that the middle of the Square by the statue of Duncan the Tall would be central and possibly safer. She started moving toward it.

The protesters decided to begin marching then. Brienne and her charges were in the middle of their path, and she barely jerked back to avoid the onslaught.

“Take axes to taxes!”

One of the protesters spotted her, and she knew she probably had a panicked looked on her face. The young woman made her way out of the crowd and stopped next to Brienne.

“You all right?” the woman shouted.

Brienne nodded. Then shook her head. “I’m meeting someone, but…” she glanced down at Tommen.

The young woman clearly understood. She nodded. “It’s gotten a bit out of hand! Look, I own the bookstore, just over there,” she pointed. “You and the boy come wait. It might be safer.”

She was about to simply thank the woman, but she caught Tommen looking up at her with that shy little smile that always _got_ her. She smiled back. His small had squeezed hers. Brienne nodded. “Thank you. I’d feel better if my nephew were out of the crowd’s way.”

She followed the young woman, all of them skirting the edge of the moving crowd, the protesters marching, and the marching band remaining in place on the Museum steps. They stopped in front of a quaint little shop with a hanging wooden sign in the shape of an open book.

The young woman was staring up at her with a big smile on her face. She shook her head, almost to herself as if dismissing something. “I’m sorry. I’m being weird.” She held out her hand. “Tysha Waters.”

Brienne took it, “Brienne—”

“Tarth, I know.” The woman cringed, her pixie face scrunching up in dismay. “I’m sorry, I just recognize you. Books, you see.” She pointed at her shop.

“Oh, yes, I…I see.” Brienne felt herself going shy. She had to force herself to remember how Jaime always said there was no reason for that. She stopped hunching.

Tysha Waters opened her mouth to say something, but from a third side of the square, _another_ huge crowd of people rushed in. They all wore matching sweater vests in pastel shades. They ran straight into the protesters, pushing them to the Square’s sides until Brienne had to draw Tommen back, almost into the bookshop. She took Briann the Lizard’s cage from him and held it higher up. How were they supposed to find Jaime in this mess?

The marching band stopped playing all of a sudden. The sweater vest mob gathered in formation around the Duncan statue and stood in identical poses, their feet tapping a few beats. The protesters seemed to be too startled to push back just yet. Some of the sweater vesters, maybe a third of them or so, fiddled with something hanging around their necks and then returned to their poses. They began to sing acappella.

_“_ _I’m a gardener baby and you’re an architect_

_I’m a dreamer baby and you lay the bricks_ _._

_I planted seeds to watch us grow and_

_you made the plans to keep the glow._

_So I’m a gardener baby and_

_you’re the architect of love.”_

_Then they danced. They danced and they sang in unison like terrifying sweater-vested clones, moving slowly around the statue._

_Their song was terrible._

The noon sun flashed overhead, and its rays caught whatever hung around some of the clones’ necks. Beams of sunlight bounced all over the square like lasers. The protesters dropped their posters and covered their eyes. Tysha Waters the bookstore owner covered her eyes. Near her head, in his cage hanging from her hand, Briann the Lizard vomited. Brienne turned her head to block the light and the sight of lizard vomit, and stared at Tommen to see if he were all right. 

Ser Pounce, being a cat, had no hands with which to cover his eyes. He _did_ have long hind legs with which to launch himself from the Baby Tormund, absolute terror on his feline face and horrifying mewls escaping his feline lungs.

He practically flew off into the crowd. Brienne watched as if a fiery crash were happening right there in front of her.

Tommen screamed more horrifyingly than his cat. “No!!!! Ser Pounce!!!!” and he ripped his hand from Brienne’s to follow his beloved cat-friend into doom.

“Tommen, no!” she shouted after him, to no avail.

She wanted to crumble to the cobblestones and possibly fall unconscious for several days. Or weeks. Instead, she handed Briann the Vomiting Lizard’s cage to Tysha Waters the bookstore owner, and she darted off after Tommen, because she wasn’t about to let that bloody boy _or_ his stupid cat be harmed in any way. Damn them both. Bless their hearts.

* * *

 

Jaime flung himself out of the taxi, not waiting for Tyrion to catch up. He rushed down the side street leading to the Square and was forced to stop in his tracks. The cacophony pouring out from the Square was astounding.

Tyrion came up behind him, already out of breath. “What in the seven hells is going on?”

Jaime shook his head. “I don’t know, but I’m going to slap some people. I’m going in.”

“Not without me!” Tyrion kept close behind, and they were forced to move at a snail’s pace, fighting past screaming people.

They made it into the Square, hugging the side where the shop entrances were. Jaime had never seen such chaos. There were hundreds and hundreds of people, either dancing and singing, playing in a marching band, or yelling about taxes, all crammed together in the Square. How in the seven hells was he supposed to find Brienne and Tommen? He was going to kill Margaery Tyrell.

Tyrion poked him and shouted, “Much as I hate to admit it, I think I might get trampled in this nonsense!”

Jaime took a second to comprehend his brother, since he was so focused on his one goal, but he nodded. “I can’t have you hurt, too.” He glanced along the Square’s closest side, spotting a shop entrance that seemed to be set back enough to provide shelter. He grabbed Tyrion by the shoulder and practically dragged him over.

In the doorway of the shop, a bookstore, a young woman stood on a stool, alternately scanning the crowd and dabbing something from the bottom of the cage which hung in her hand. The cage contained one Briann the Lizard. Jaime let go of Tyrion and darted toward the woman.

“Where did you get that lizard? Who gave it to you?” He knew he sounded ferocious, and he couldn’t bother to care.

Briann vomited out the side of the cage and onto the cobblestones, narrowly missing Jaime’s shirt. “Seven hells,” he muttered.

The young woman ignored the vomit and peered at him, almost at a height since she stood on the stool. She nodded to herself. “Brienne Tarth. She had her nephew with her, and the boy’s cat ran off. She handed me—”

“You saw Brienne! And Tommen! Where?” Jaime gripped the woman’s shoulder and then let go as he realized he was about to shake her.

The woman nodded her head toward the crowd. “They’re out there. In _that._ ”

Jaime raked his hand through his hair and then looked at the stool. “May I?”

The woman hopped off. “Be my guest.”

Jaime stepped on the stool, and the advantage of his height allowed him to see above the heads of the crowd. He felt nearly blinded from bizarre reflections darting around, and then, close to the statue of Duncan the Tall, he saw a mop of blonde hair he knew better than his own reflection. _Brienne._ He leapt off the stool.

“I’m worried,” the tiny little woman holding Briann said.

Jaime wasn’t sure if she were worried about the missing boy and cat or about the intestinal fortitude of the lizard. He didn’t have time to respond. He glanced at Tyrion for only a second. “Stay here.”

Tyrion was looking up at the woman. “Not a problem.”

* * *

 

The Tyrell car pulled into the garage of the Baelor’s Square Rose and Thorn, Olenna Tyrell’s boutique hotel venture in the heart of the city. Margaery made sure that Gendry and Arya had their cameras before leading the entire group through the hotel and into the Square.

It was absolute delicious chaos. But the flash mob had started too soon! They were already halfway through! _No!!!_

Marg turned to Gendrya. “Go film! Now! Go!”

They ran off in opposite directions, their necks covered in hickies. Disgusting.

Marg clutched her friends tightly by the hands. “Okay guys, this is it. We have to get them to start over, and then we have to find everyone, and it’s going to be _epic_.”

“Margaery!” a voice called out from behind her, inside the hotel.

The girls spun around.

“Willas!” Sansa shouted.

“I thought you were…all of you were out _there_! I was worried!” Willas hobbled up to them, something square in his hand.

“We just got here. It was _nuts_!” Margaery exclaimed, anxious to spot Loras or Renly so she could get that mob restarted. “Come on girls, we have to find people!”

“You can’t go out there!” Willas shouted, having an un-Willas-like actual freak out. “It’s not safe!”

Marg scowled. “We made this happen! We have to see it through!”

Willas turned to Sansa. “Please? Stay here?”

Marg glanced at Sansa who seemed to be Tyrell-ma-tized. It was a thing.

She threw her hands up in the air and smacked a protester’s poster. “For the love of the Seven!!!” She pushed Sansa into Willas, almost making them fall over, but Willas caught Sansa.

They stared at each other. Willas held up the square thing he’d been holding. “I…I made this for you. As a graduation present. It’s too early.”

Sansa took it. It was stupid, fricking, wood-burned direwolf. What in the seven hells?!?

Sansa started to cry. “It’s so beautiful, Willas. It’s so beautiful.”

Willas lifted his hand to catch a trail of tears on Sansa’s cheek. “ _You’re_ beautiful. I should have told you before.”

Myrcy started laughing. “Oh my gods, it just needs to rain or something. Or there should be a white horse.”

“Ugh!” Marg shouted. She didn’t have _time_ for this.

She pushed Sansa a little more, and Sansa tilted her face up, and Willas leaned down, and there was this painfully slow, actually slow-motion thing of creeping closer and closer, and then Willas kissed Sansa so gently it was more like setting a lip against another lip and hoping for the best.

Sansa fisted her fingers around Willas’ starched white shirt and pulled him closer.

So that was done.

Marg sighed. “Come on, Myrcy. It’s up to us now.”

Sansa popped up from Willas’ weird spell. “I can’t miss this!”

“You can’t go out there!” Willas breathed.

Marg jumped up and down. “Oh my gods, is that Ser Pounce on the statue?”

Myrcy jumped up and down. “Oh my gods, yes!”

Sansa jumped up and down. “If everyone sees Ser Pounce, they’ll all meet there!”

Margaery dragged Myrcy right into the crowd, Myrcy dragged Sansa, and Sansa dragged Willas who was probably dying because of his limp.

They _had_ to brave life and limb for epic true love.

* * *

 

Jaime wove in and out of the insanity, trying to trail the blonde head, but he’d lost sight of it. He needed to see above the crowd again, but it was too difficult to get back to that bookstore now. He spotted the Duncan statue and headed toward that. If he could just climb up on the base…

Was that Ser Pounce? It _was_! The poor beast had taken refuge between Duncan the Tall’s bronze limbs, his little cat body trembling. Jaime fought against sweater-vested dancers and posters with Mayor Baelish’s defaced image on it. He thought he might actually have slapped someone. He didn’t care.

He made it to the statue, and he scrambled onto the base using the shoulder of dancer as leverage. Ser Pounce peered up at him with the look of a rescued damsel in his wide green eyes, and Jaime scooped him up and cradled him against his chest. He scanned the crowd, waiting for his one true love to appear.

* * *

 

Brienne thought she’d circled the Square at least three times before she finally spotted Tommen. She’d been terrified that the boy would get trampled, but he was adeptly ducking here and there like a mouse navigating a maze. She was grateful for her stature and long limbs for once, picking up speed and bulldozing through the crowd to catch up to Tommen. Just a bit more, just a little further…she ducked down for one second and wrapped her arms around him tightly, lifting him off his feet.

“You should _not_ have run off!” she shouted.

“I made a second mistake!”

* * *

 

Tyrion stared at the young woman holding Briann the Lizard’s cage. She was tiny and beautiful. Not dwarf tiny, but still tiny. She looked like an innocent porcelain doll with the promise of mischief in her eyes.  

She caught him watching. “You’re with that man who’s with Brienne Tarth?”

Tyrion nodded. “He’s my brother. He’s insane.”

She scoffed. “Seemed sane enough to me. This _place_ is insane.”

“My whole family is insane. That sweater-vested part of the insanity? My niece is responsible for that.”

The woman smirked. “Well, as long as no one is hurt, I’m glad for it. My protest will get publicity for this.”

“ _Your_ protest?” Tyrion was intrigued. He liked rebels.

“I organized it, yes.” She put her free hand on her hip and looked very serious. “We’re being taxed to death! Many of us might not be able to stay in business in the city for much longer.”

“I can fix that,” he offered immediately.

“What?”

“I’m Tyrion Lannister. I can fix that. I have ways.” He waited to see if she’d like that or hate it.

She cocked her head to one side. “Are you trying to fix my tax problem to impress me?”

He smiled. “Yes?”

“It’s not working. You’ll have to try harder.”

“Perhaps I can find a better way over dinner.” He raised one brow in challenge.

She raised hers right back. “Perhaps you can. But I think the lizard might be a third wheel.”

Briann the Lizard vomited. Again. Maybe he had swallowed more than one cat show medal.

* * *

 

Myrcy felt more out of breath than she ever had in her _entire life_ as they approached the stature of Ser Duncan the Tall. She was pretty sure she had two dislocated shoulders and black eyes and maybe gangrene somewhere.

“Look, it’s hot Uncle Jaime!” Margaery screamed.

“He’s got Ser Pounce!” Myrcy shrieked, actually tearing up that Tommen’s stupid cat wasn’t dead by trampling.

Sansa just wailed. Willas bundled her against the statue’s base and kissed her, and she stopped.

Margaery whipped her head around. “I can’t see Loras or Renly _anywhere_. We’ve got to get the song restarted before Brienne finds hot Uncle Jaime!”

Myrcy glanced up at her uncle who was scanning the crowd. She didn’t think he’d seen them yet, but she knew instant he’d spotted someone else.

She grabbed Marg’s hand. “Look!” She pointed up.

They watched as Uncle Jaime’s expression of deep concern completely changed into one of total relief, and also, _total epic love_.

“We’re too late!” Marg moaned. “She’s coming.”

Myrcy shook her head. “No, we’re not. Text Gendry. Tell him to get the band going.”

Marg gleamed. “Yes, Myrcy, of course. Plan B.”

“Plan B.” Myrcy nodded.

Marg pulled out her phone and manically texted. As Uncle Jaime began to grin widely and maybe tear up or something weird, the marching band started playing _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ again. Someone from the crowd of protesters started singing the words. She knew it wasn’t one of the flash mobbers since no one would dare defy Loras Tyrell when some type of dancing/singing/theatrics was involved.

In less than a minute, even the flash mobbers had started to give up though. They couldn’t win against the marching band and the singing protesters. Two totally angry, raging, roidal bros in matching pastel sweater vests ran up to them.

“This is your fault somehow!” Loras screamed at Margaery. “I know it!”

Margaery screamed right back. “We tried to find you! I can’t help if you show up when it’s too late!”

Renly wedged in between them. “There’s nothing for it now. I think the police are coming!”

He pointed to the far side of the Square where the crowd seemed to be parting to let in a bunch of police with whistles.

“Well, it’s not _us_ , obviously. We’re peaceful flash mobbers. It was those stupid protesters who ruined everything!” Loras shrieked.

“Shh!” Myrcy yelled at the top of her lungs. “It’s happening! If _anybody_ makes me miss this, I’m going to shred your heart out of your chest!”

“How is that even—” Loras attempted.

Margaery pulled a roll of tape out of her pocket and shut Loras right up.

They could _not_ miss this. Myrcy beckoned to Sansa, and as soon as she stepped over, leaving Willas with his brother and Renly, they clasped hands, all three of them, and they waited.

It was going to be _epic._

* * *

 

Brienne held Tommen awkwardly as the crowd rushed around them. She tried to navigate out the stream without being trampled, but it seemed impossible to get back to the sides of the Square. She looked to the center instead, at the Statue of Duncan the Tall. They could wait there until things died down.

She wove her way there, one dancing mobber or protester at a time. The marching band struck up its tune all of a sudden, throwing the dancers into even more chaos as they gave up one after the other. People started singing the words to the song, and she was soon engulfed in some impromptu display of Westerosi sentimentality.

She kept her eyes on the statue. As she got closer, a familiar blond head of hair appeared. She thought her heart was going to leap out of her chest and fly toward him before she could get there herself.

“Ser Pounce!” Tommen shouted right into her ear. So now she would go deaf. Wonderful.

But there was Jaime, holding the thrice-damned cat as if it were an injured human infant.

He spotted her. She was staring at him, so she knew the moment he worried scan of the crowd ceased in favor of recognition. A smile began to bloom on his face.

She wanted to match it, but instead she thought she might actually cry. It was absurd, but true nonetheless. _Jaime._

He waited until she’d gotten close, broken through the crowd to the small area beneath the statue where she could breathe and not risk tripping over several hundred dancing feet. The girls were there, and Renly and Loras Tyrell, and somebody she thought was yet another Tyrell brother. They formed a semicircle.

Jaime leapt down from the statue’s base in a graceful motion that seemed so practiced she’d wonder if he were part of the surrounding choreography if she didn’t know better. He headed right for her, and it wasn’t far. He stopped. She hadn’t torn her gaze from him the entire time, and the instant he was close enough for his scent to hit her, for the warmth of his body to make itself known by her skin, she let out all the air in her lungs and just whispered his name.

He blinked rapidly. He looked at Tommen and carefully buckled Ser Pounce back into his Baby Tormund, tugging all the straps to make sure the fowl beast couldn’t get lose again. Tommen clutched his cat and cried and cried, and Ser Pounce, to his fowl beastly credit, licked Tommen’s face in some sandpapery show of affection.

Jaime wrapped his arms around them both as she still held Tommen. The boy leaned his head against Jaime’s right shoulder, nestled between his uncle and his cat. Brienne claimed the other shoulder, solid and familiar, and she wedged her face as close to his neck as she could and breathed him in. He was crushing them with his arms, but nobody cared. His hand wove into her hair and pressed her head closer, and he kissed the side of her neck and her ear, and he let go and stepped back.

“Come here,” he muttered to Tommen, and the boy let her go of her and leapt like a cat from her arms to Jaime’s, careful not to smash Ser Pounce.

Jaime held Tom in a fierce hug, and then he yelled at him, “Don’t you ever, _ever_ , do anything like this again? Do you understand me?”

Tommen began to nod, but Jaime clearly didn’t need a reply as he kissed the boy’s forehead over and over and clutched him even tighter. Tommen hugged him back, and then he mumbled, close enough still that Brienne could hear, “Can I see Myrcy? I must tell her about my mistakes.”

Jaime laughed at damp sort of laugh and nodded, letting Tom down but keep a hand on him until Myrcy stepped forward and wrapped her brother and the cat in yet another bone-crushing hug. Brienne was sure there’d be more to come.

She felt his eyes on her—Jaime’s.

She heard police whistles, shouting protesters, wailing sweater-vest clones, the marching band, and mostly her own heartbeat.

He stepped forward and kissed her right there in the middle of Baelor’s Square, surrounded by what seemed like half of King’s Landing. She lifted her arms to wrap around his neck, her fingers in his hair. His stump pressed against the small of her back. His hand cupped her cheek. She kissed him back, open-mouthed. For a long, long time.

When neither of them could really breathe anymore, she moved her head back enough to stare at him, her lips twisting into the biggest smile she could remember. “I finished my book,” she whispered.

He kissed her cheek and the corner of her eye and her lips. “How does it end?”

“No one dies.” She kissed his lips back.

His smile was bigger than hers. “Good. That’s good. I like that ending.”

“I knew you would. I like it, too. I love it.” She sucked in a deep, cleansing breath. “I love you.”

He knew what she’d said, it was obvious, but a sly little smile replaced his wide grin, and he winked at her. “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you. Crowd noise, you know.”

She just didn’t care anymore. Olenna Tyrell, the old harpy, had been right.

She shouted as loud as she could, “I love you, Jaime Lannister!”

He kissed her hard, with tongue. For a long while. Then he stepped back and dropped his hands. He shouted at the top of his lungs, “I love you, Brienne Tarth!”

She laughed at the absurdity of, well, everything. Of how happy she was. Of how happy _he_ was. He stuck his hand in his trouser pocket and took out a little box. “Miracle this is still here,” he muttered to himself.

He held out the box. “Do you want this?”

She watched his face. It was full of mirth and joy, and a thin little layer of actual fear just beneath the surface. He wasn’t sure. She hated that he wasn’t sure. She was going to work on that.

“Obviously!” she shouted.

There, the layer was gone, wiped away by more joy. He started to kneel.

“What are you doing? Get up!” She reached for him.

He slapped her away. “Leave me be! I’m going to do this how I want to do it.”

She sighed. “Fine, fine.”

He knelt all the way down on one knee, and he flicked the box open to display a very simple silver ring with a single sapphire stone. She never wore jewelry, ever. She would never take the ring off, ever.

“Marry me,” he shouted.

“Yes!” she shouted.

He leapt up and kissed her and nearly dropped the ring.

“That’s mine now, you can’t lose it!” she shouted.

“Nag!” he shouted.

He used his teeth to get the ring out the box and then slid the ring onto her finger. It wouldn’t go past her knuckle.

He shrugged and grinned. “We’ll get it sized.”

“Obviously.” She kissed him more. It was all she really wanted to do, at least until half of King’s Landing was no longer around.

She vaguely registered camera flashes and more shouting, but she just didn’t care. She smiled and kissed him harder.

* * *

 

Myrcy could barely see all the unicorn/warrior/cinnamon roll magic through her cascading tears. It was _all the things_. _All_ of them. Her arms tightened around Tommen.

Sansa leaned on one of her shoulders as she, too, wept. Margaery sniffed. It was her way.

The police were breaking up the crowd as the marching band still played. The protesters began to disperse, and Loras and Renly watched as their acapella flash mob fizzled. She felt bad for them. She nudged Marg and pointed.

Marg’s brows rose as she saw her brother’s miserable face. “Hey Lor! I bet no one would expect another flash mob performance in Visenya’s Park!”

Loras seemed almost numb, or maybe frozen like a popsicle, and he slowly thawed as Margaery’s suggestion seeped in. His face lit up. He looked at Renly.

Renly shrugged. He looked _just_ like Gendry in that moment. Weird.

“Why the hells not?” Renly chuckled. “I’ll gather the troops.”

He and Loras wandered off to make their dreams come true. Well, one of them. For that afternoon.

Uncle Jaime was still snogging Brienne. Myrcy sighed with deep satisfaction and felt like a mother hen looking after her chicks as they learned to…peck corn. Or something. She had no idea what chicks did.

Shouts came from behind them, and they glanced back to see Gendry and Arya run up. They were holding hands, and Gendry had a huge camera perched on his shoulder.

“Look guys!” he shouted as Arya pointed to the big screen on the National Museum above the marching band.

The image of the Magical Snogging of Wonder and Epicness filled the massive screen as Gendry pointed his camera at the OTP to end all OTPs.

A woman appeared from somewhere, and Myrcy noticed a news crew filming the entire Square. Their cameras settled on The Snog. Another woman came running up, jumping and pointing excitedly at The Snog.

“It’s Brienne Tarth! The famous author!”

The woman was followed by…Uncle Tyrion? Yes, it _was_ Uncle Tyrion holding Briann the Lizard in his cage. _Wut?_

“And Jaime Lannister, of the _Lannister Family_!” Uncle Tyrion shouted so loud Myrcy thought Pentos would hear.

“Briann the Lizard!” Tommen cried out, breaking from Myrcy’s grasp to run to Uncle Tyrion. Ser Pounce bounced in his harness. She breathed in relief as Uncle Tyrion immediately grabbed Tommen’s belt and held on to it for dear life.

A frantic flapping momentarily drowned the excitement of the remaining crowd. They all looked up to see a flock of white doves obscure the sun as it left the Square.

“Why are there doves?” Marg asked what everyone was thinking.

“ _How_ are there doves?” Uncle Tyrion’s brows drew together.

Myrcy sighed. “There are doves because there are supposed to be doves. Because love.” She didn’t question it. The Seven knew love when they saw it. She was sure.

Sansa mumbled through her tears. “This time next year, we could have a tall awkward baby.”

“Maybe not so awkward,” Marg added, grinning like a pirate as she watched The Snog.

“Maybe not,” Sansa agreed.

The news reporter switched on her mic and stood not far from The Snog, so it would be in the frame. “Coming to you live from Baelor’s Square where a massive crowd has been broken up by the police after a marching band performance was interrupted by protesters decrying Mayor Baelish’s tax scheme. It seems that a third group, a singing flash mob, was also present. No reports of injuries at this time, but the chaos seems to have sparked a spontaneous proposal from Jaime Lannister of the well-known Lannister Enterprises, to best-selling author Brienne Tarth. As you can see, she said yes.”

“We got them on the news, you guys!” Marg sniffed again. “The news and the big screen, and _all the cameras_. Oh my gods!”

“It was…” Sansa wailed, “it was _all the things_!”

Marg gripped her hand really hard and nodded. “You know, we’re always going to be fangirls, but we’ve peaked, I think.”

“We’ve peaked,” Myrcy agreed.

“I agree,” Sansa agreed.

“But you know what else?” Myrcy turned away from the Never-ending Snog somehow and looked at Marg and Sansa. “We might have to grow up like, _all the way_ , and be adults for real, and go to uni or not go to uni, and when all that has happened, we’re going to have to pretend that we don’t fangirl because _adult_ , and we’ll have to hide it until we’re like, _forty_ or something old like that, and then we won’t give a fuck anymore and can fangirl again. But in the meantime, when we have to hide it because _adult,_ we’ll have each other and we’ll never have to hide it completely.”

Marg sniffed.

Sansa wept.

Myrcy smiled. “Maybe adulting won’t be so terrible.”

Marg grinned back. “Oh, I think it will be fantastic. I’m going to have _so_ much sex. And we’ll have to move on from jagerbombs and cake vodka to like, some kind of wine.”

“When we’re forty, maybe fanfic will just be beamed straight into our brains,” Sansa suggested, smiling through her tears.

“You know what _else_ else?” Marg goaded.

“What?” Sansa said.

“What?” Myrcy said.

Marg smirked her sly Tyrell smirk. “Grandmother writes fanfic. She’s the top fan in the _Song of Flesh and Robots_ saga. She thinks no one knows.”

“That’s amazing,” Sansa said.

“I want to _be_ her,” Myrcy said.

“ _I am_ going to be her. You’re both going to be you, just older. With wine,” Marg said.

Myrcy turned her gaze back to the Amazing Snog of Eternity. “I’m okay with that.”

“Me, too,” Sansa added, not even wailing.

“Everyone is leaving.” Myrcy looked around.

Uncle Tyrion was sitting at a café table nearby with that woman who had recognized Brienne. Tommen had a third seat with Ser Pounce. The lizard had a fourth; he hung his lizard head out the bars of his cage and didn’t even vomit. Renly and Loras had gathered the mob and were preparing to march them to their next mob stop. Gendry and Arya had climbed the Duncan statue and were snogging, but not nearly as well and Uncle Jaime and…Aunt Brienne.

Myrcy felt deeply, deeply satisfied. They might be crazy, but she had a family, and she couldn’t ask for better people to be in it. She wondered if people would pay for snogging lessons, because they’d all get richer than her grandfather if Uncle Jaime and _Aunt_ Brienne offered lessons.

It was _epic_.

 

 

The End. Really. Finis.


End file.
